


Along The Nile River

by EliseLe



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Ancient Egypt, F/M, M/M, royal family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliseLe/pseuds/EliseLe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newt enjoyed walking along the Nile River, or simply being anywhere else than the royal palace. He did not hate his home, nor want to stay away from Alby – Pharaoh and Newt’s over-protective brother. The Prince was just tired of gossips behind his back.</p>
<p>One day, a ramble brought him to a destined encounter, where he met a strange boy, whose memories were nothing but a blank space. A boy who had nothing and yet would change everything.</p>
<p>“Little brother, there is a snake lurking in dark corners of our palace. A pair of burning eyes is watching us from the shadows. Don’t let its venomous fangs reach you, as it did to our father. The old enemy has come back. Protect Egypt. Protect our Home.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The blond prince

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! First off, if you're reading this, thanks for taking time and being here to read my story. We (my beta-reader and me) have put tons of effort on it. So, please enjoy (n˘v˘•)¬
> 
> No doubt comments and kudos will help us improve it and give us huge motivation to develop the story. Please, you're very welcome here (•⊙ω⊙•)
> 
> Ancient Egypt has always been a passion of mine. Tagged with each chapter will be notes about historical places and stuffs mentioned in the story. You can visit the tag on my blog [here](http://elise-ruby.tumblr.com/tagged/atnr) and get to know more about life of ancient Egyptians.
> 
> And hey, thanks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys can take a look at a simple gifset for the fic [here](http://elise-ruby.tumblr.com/post/149923365820/elise-ruby-ancient-egypt-au-the-maze-runner) ヽ(๏∀๏ )ﾉ
> 
> Also, for this story I take Malkata Palace as the main residence of the royal family. You can read the information about Malkata [here](http://elise-ruby.tumblr.com/post/150243165820/along-the-nile-river-the-maze-runner-au) to get a sense about Alby and Newt's home (▰˘◡˘▰)

 

It was early in the morning, but he already felt the suffocating heat slowly filling the air, his sweat marking the soft sheet a faint humid and uncomfortable scent. Well, what to expect when you lived in a land (mostly) surrounded by deserts, where sand dunes stretched endlessly, rains barely dropped by and the great sun burnt up everything within its reach?

Actually, he had to expect, even pray for, a bunch of things. Life in royal palaces was not always relaxing, not as simple as wondering how today’s weather would be, or what surprise for lunch. For example, there was a whole kingdom to take care of.

Firstly, would the annual flood of the Nile arrive in time this year, or would it arrive _at all_? If it did, water would once again cover both banks of the Nile and leave fertile black silt when it receded. Hence, farmers could begin a new growing season and feed the rest of Egypt. Nothing to complain. Otherwise, drought would come as an uninvited guest, thus famine would follow – a marvelous combination that never failed to panic inhabitants of this arid territory, then eventually led to the decline of a dynasty.

Secondly, were all neighbors friendly? Furthest North1, Hittite was growing strong, became a powerful kingdom that even rivaled Egypt, always prepared for war and was constantly at war. In the southern border was Nubia, Egyptian colony. They had been living – apparently – in peace for years, but still Nubian envoys’ face did not appear quite pleased as they came to give the annual offerings on behalf of Egypt’s conquered land. Not to mention the Libyans who controlled the land to the West of Egypt, whose envious eyes were always settling on the magnificent Upper Egypt and the bountiful Lower Egypt.

If something went wrong, people would assume it was a punishment from the mighty gods and blame Pharaoh for having failed as a devoted servant of the deities. Too much pressure for one man to handle.

_Fortunately, I am not, and will never be, Pharaoh after all._

Stopping his mind from wandering around, Newt lazily got up to prepare for a new day. He then went to the dressing room to put on a white linen shendyt, no shirt because he intended to stay inside the whole day, so there was no chance that he would get exposed to the boiling sun. Done for the clothes, he quickly applied a light layer of eyeliner2 around the contour of his brown eyes.

Often, Newt would go to the training field unless the bad-tempered ankle messed up with him. Today was that day. It was not pleasant to move around when your ankle did not obey. So he headed to his preferred little shelter instead.

It’s going to be a peaceful day.

 

 

After picking all the needed papers, including the copies of some official reports that an archivist made for him, he carried them to a stone table placed near the edge of the room to receive as much sunlight as possible. Newt spread the papers on its flat surface, grabbed a chair and made himself comfortable. Even though it was not supposed to be his quarter, this room was one of Newt’s favorite place, where he spent hours peacefully reading, thinking, or simply enjoying the morning sunlight as well as contemplating its gleaming reflection on the skyline-silver lake lying before his eyes. Far away, a high brick wall stood between the palace and the outside world, defending all assaulters who ever wanted to intrude the palace.

This room was part of a small palace situated beside that of the King. The walls of said palace had a floral pattern also featuring birds and red or white calves. The floors were painted to resemble the Nile teeming with fish. Some chambers were decorated with brightly colored tiles depicting flowers, grapes and vines, birds and fish, while others included glyphs meaning protection, health and good luck. Enormous columns with intricate design were seen in every hallways and chambers, each making its way to the towering ceiling and standing proudly while supporting the entire weight of the roof. Elegantly decorated, this palace had been originally built for the Queen, in other word, the Great Wife of the King, but up until now, there was no such person in royal daily life. Plus, uninhabited palace was such a waste, so Alby told him to use it freely, however Newt wished to. Having a brother who happened to be Pharaoh was a big advantage. He noted to himself to use this benefit as much as he could.

Even though Newt enjoyed his own tidy quarter, sadly, it was not blessed with such breathtaking view compared to the Queen’s palace. So, he allowed himself to borrow one of the (most beautiful) rooms in the Queen’s quarter, which gave a pleasant view over the picturesque artificial lake. At first, he went here simply to relax, contemplate the lake’s beauty, enjoy fresh breezes that brought along pure air and somehow, he could feel the uproar of inhabitants’ daily life on this dearest land. Bit by bit, he filled the room with paper scrolls of books, documents, reports, put them in big vases classified into distinct categories, arranged some furniture and finally converted the empty room into his private library.

Eventually having enough of the view of the room, Newt came back to his work.

 _There’s some obscurity in those numbers_. Newt thought while sliding fingers along the papers, a slight frown on his face. He read attentively, marked all the suspicious parts with red ink, continuously flipped from papers to papers, lips pursed and fingers tapping on the table’s surface.

 _This bloody scribe’s gotten himself into problems. Just check the report about his income last year, and things will all get clear_. Newt stood up and hastily approached the vase that indicated Reports. For not paying attention, he tripped on his feet when approaching these vases of books. A shriek came out of his mouth when he felt the left ankle hit somewhere rather hard. Wanting to prevent the dreadful fall, he instinctively, not any less desperately, grabbed a vase nearby to hold back.  _Shit_. He thought, because now he was going to collapse on the ground together with that vase. Shattered pieces of the going-to-break vase would leave ugly scars all over his body.

Abruptly and miraculously, a hand gripped him back right when Newt had closed his eyes, already been ready to sacrifice himself to the holy ground. Newt’s savior helped him stand steadily on his feet and somehow saved that vase at the same time.

“Little brother, if you manage to break the other ankle, I’ll have you locked in your room forever.”

 

 

Newt walked back, a hiss escaped his mouth when his left leg touched the ground while leaning on the King who stayed by his side. Finally finding a comfortable position on a nearby chair, Newt bent down to rub his swollen ankle, a grimace of pain showed on the pale face. His brother sitting beside him watched the prince worriedly. Catching his brother’s concerned look, Newt sat back upright in his chair and faking a smirk.

“Slim it, Alby. I’m fine. Stop that look, it’s like you’re mourning for me already.”

Alby smiled a little at the remark, but soon a flash of sadness and guilt was formed in his eyes, “I should’ve tried to heal your ankle completely,” Alby sounded regretful, “I simply thought it would get better by itself… And now you have to suffer it every day.”

Newt shrugged evenly, but the smirk now changed into a sincere smile. “You and I both know that is not your fault, so just stop blaming yourself, okay? Also, stop exaggerating! I don’t suffer it every day, it just occurs when I push myself off the limits. Yesterday I did walk a bit too much. The ankle got sore afterwards. And I must have banged it somewhere when I tripped. You’ve done everything you can, brother. Those new medicinal herbs you gave me are incredible. It eases the pain almost immediately.”

The elder let out a discreet sigh, but the corner of his mouth turned upwards and he ruffled his brother’s hair. “Got to do everything I can for my little brother, right? Don’t push yourself too far though.”

The prince nodded, but he shoved Alby’s hand gently and playfully. “I’m 17, not 5. Stop patting my head like that. And how did you know I was here?”

“You didn’t come to the training field today. I’ve already been there, but Gally said not seeing you this morning. So I guess you came here.”

  
Newt grinned. “Tell me, what’s the matter that makes the King wander around this immense palace looking for me?”

  
Pharaoh gave him a genuine smile. “Well, having lunch alone is boring, so I look for some companion.”

Newt raised his eyebrows while showing a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Alby, you let me use the Queen’s quarter, and now you wander around the palace desperately looking for me to join you at lunch. I’m afraid that people might soon assume that _I am_ the royal Queen.”

“Great, let’s have lunch, then proceed to get married.” The elder rolled his eyes but laughed nonetheless with his little brother. After a moment, Newt’s face became thoughtful, before he looked back at the King and asked, “Do you know the scribe Vizu, one of Deir el-Medina ’s3 leaders?”

“No clue,” Alby shook his head, “what’s special about him?”

The prince did not reply, instead he handed Alby all the papers on which some numbers were highlighted with red marks. The King’s eyebrows quirked at Newt’s action, but still he took those papyrus papers without saying anything. Alby took a glance on it and stated, “This is the report about the monthly income of Deir el-Medina’s leaders. I see that you’ve noted down at some parts. These marks pointed out that scribe’s income, right?”

“Yes, what else do you notice?”

Alby glanced back at these reports. This time he read it more carefully, while Newt was waiting with patience. Finally, he shrugged. “I don’t know. It looks perfectly normal for me.”

“That’s the point, Alby. It looks perfectly normal, though the reality tells me otherwise.”

“What do you mean?” The older brother frowned as he looked up from the reports.

“As confirmed in this report, his monthly income only reaches the average standard profit for a person assuming such position - scribe and village’s co-captain at the same time. The point is, he must gain much more than this trivial number.”

“How can you be certain about it? We can’t accuse a village’s leader by simply seeing his trivial income. Do you have any proof concerning his odd profits?”

“Yes, I’ve seen his wealth by my own eyes! And-” Newt stopped suddenly, bit at his lips as if he regretted the things he had just said.

Alby’s eyes narrowed. “And how did you witness it by _your own eyes_ , Newt?”

Awkwardly, Newt scratched his head, trying to select the right words to say, or to calm the situation. Truth seemed to be the best choice in this case. He swallowed and answered reluctantly without looking at the King’s black eyes. “I…had a relaxing walk in that village yesterday.”

“You WHAT?!”

It was the exact reaction he had expected, followed with Alby’s face that was darkening until it turned into a glower. Newt explained rapidly, “I just wanted to, you know, enjoy some, uh, fresh air so I secretly left the palace, I had to… well it doesn’t matter now. I’ve got the important information.”

Newt felt Alby’s anger boiling up, so he quickly assumed that the pathetic attempt at saving his own arse from getting eternally confined in a secret chamber hidden somewhere at the bottom of the Royal Palace had failed. _I’m doomed_.

“How many time have I told you not to go out of the palace _by yourself_?! A prince does not traipse from villages to villages without any guard. Actually, he should not leave the palace without guard at all! And there you are, my little brother, the prince of Egypt, the second rightful heir, eventually sneaking out like it is a _hobby_!”

 _Still, it really is an irresistible hobby_ , Newt thought. Alby’s vivid reaction grew more…vivid than he had anticipated. Newt was about to defend himself (he had already prepared a very touching speech), but clearly the elder would not let him get that chance easily. Out of all people living in this land, Newt was proud to be the only one gifted with the talent of making Egypt’s sovereign lose his mind, one way or another.

“What would you do if someone recognized you Newt? What would _they_ do if they recognized you? Have you ever thought of it? I strongly believe that it isn’t difficult to identify you in the crowd.”

“Alby, listen. My face is not quite well known. I adopt a quite discreet life and rarely show up in front of Egyptian citizens. Besides, I nearly transformed into a different person when going out. You know, muds, or charcoal, make skin darker. I also covered my head with a kerchief. Come on Alby, I looked pretty similar to a normal laborer with all those make ups on!”

“That doesn’t excuse the fact that you can go for a walk around Egypt whenever you feel like! Just in a blink and someone can pull off the kerchief to recognize who you are. Newt, golden hair is not the thing that people will ignore.” The King said as he gestured at Newt’s golden locks and all over his body, covered by pale white skin. Newt let out a frustrated groan and ran a hand through his hair. Alby was right. His appearance itself made him outstanding in every circumstance.

Newt was different from everybody, even from his own brother. Whereas Alby’s skin was covered by a shade of dark brown as every Egyptian would have, his was like the pale and ivory moonlight. Sometimes, his whole body seemed to radiate under the burning sunshine, making him look like he was actually _shining_ , as the Pharaoh always teased. No wonder why it rarely failed to capture other’s attention. However, what always left people with mixed emotions between awe and enviousness was the Prince’s golden hair. Egyptians believed gold was the skin and flesh of Ra, their mightiest god whose powers transformed into the brilliance of the glowering sun upon their head. As precious as treasures they hoarded. As bright as color of endless sand dunes covering and protecting this land.

Without this golden treasure, Newt would have been banished from the palace, even from Egypt, for a long time ago. Difference either cursed you, or saved you.

But now, Alby's wrath had to wait.

“Brother, I’m sorry for worrying you, okay? Should we talk about it later? Because I have important thing to tell you _right now_ ,” he spoke and pointed a finger at the papyrus paper, directing their conversation’s subject to the main problem. Alby glared at him, though he became calmer now, then nodded and gave Newt the sign to continuing.  
“I’ve been to this scribe’s mansion, and seen parts of his properties. It tells me that something was wrong,” Newt showed Alby the papers as he spoke, “There’s no way that man can only gain such low profits, basing on the incredible vast lands and the giant cattle herd he possesses. It must be double, or triple than the number written here. He’s either too lazy to make farmers work on his fields, or…”

Newt waited for a slight reaction, but Alby’s face was unreadable. He was attentively listening throughout Newt’s explanation, yet remained silent. With a deep breathe, the Prince concluded, “…or he’s hiding something about his fortune.”

“What do you think it might be, Newt?”

“He might hide the exceeding profits for himself, or else, he’s doing it for other people. With good or bad intention, only Amun4 might know.”

“He has begun this clandestine affair for how long? Do you know?”

“Almost a year, apparently. I’ve compared these monthly records. You see, since the beginning of this year, his income has gradually decreased, until it reaches a certain number and keeps varying around it. I was about to get the report of the last few years to make a final conclusion, then unfortunately, but elegantly, tripped over my own feet.” The blond said the last part with a hint of sarcasm, but groaned at the sight of his brother slightly raising the corners of his mouth, “Don’t you dare laugh on my face again, Alby.”

The king was just about to deliver a witty comeback, but the threatening glare Newt sent him made Alby stopped abruptly. “I won’t, I won’t. Don’t get mad, little brother. I believe we should start an investigation on this scribe’s case as soon as possible, on his whole family and on other leaders of Deir el-Medina as well. If he already got away with those lies many times, someone else must have colluded with him. This will also give our warnings to other officials,” Alby said as he leaned back on his chair, eyes firmly looking into Newt’s, “punitions must be given, hence justice will be maintained.”

Newt nodded and gave his older brother a smile. “You’re doing great, Alby. You’re doing great for our people.”

He patted Newt’s shoulder, but he said nothing else. Lost in thoughts, he was looking at the lake, now shimmering under the blazing sunlight and turning into a large silvered mirror. After a while, Pharaoh let out a sigh.

“Wish you can assist in royal court with me, little brother. I feel overwhelmed sometimes.”

Alby’s sudden words surprised Newt, though he just answered with a sad smile. “You know that is impossible. Things have changed, brother.”

“I know. Sometimes people still wish for the impossible to happen. Maybe it could be true one day,” Alby said with a low voice, “you’ve helped me and this land countless times, yet no one knows about what you did. It’s not fair for you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I just want to help. If it wasn’t because of me, you would not have to be King that soon.”

“Soon or late, I’ll have to step on the throne anyway. Don’t let the past tear you apart from the present. It’s not your fault. I know that, you know that. Our father wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

The mention of their father sent a sharp pain to Newt’s heart, like a rock being thrown on still water. He could never forget the warmth of his father’s loving embrace around his body, before the former King faded away from this world. Apart from it, other events on that fateful day were all blurry - pieces of turbulent memories that he tried to deny. People tugged him away from the cold body belonging to whose he once called beloved father. Alby went mad, ordered to hunt, to seize, to execute anyone involving in this murder.

_Accident? There was no accident. They wanted to kill my father and my brother, and had partly succeeded. These are all of them, the murderers? Kill them. I want to see their head cut off their horrid body. Gally, why don’t you do it? Proof? I need no proof. Fine. I’ll do it myself._

Newt remembered seeing dark red liquid all over his brother’s body that day. He also remembered Alby’s anguish scream when the older brother ran toward him, who was lying on the ground, breathing heavily. _No no no. Newt. Newt. Little brother. Wake up. Don’t leave me. Save him. What are you waiting for. Save him or I’ll kill you all. Save him, please_. Darkness slowly covered the prince’s mind. He woke up a week after. Alby was crowned Pharaoh. Newt got a limp until the end of his life.

Since then, all courtiers were virtually unanimous in their opinion that the prince should stay away from the throne, not assist in any royal affair. _For the prince’s utmost safety, my King. If they see him in court, as a rightful heir of Egypt, they will try to attack again_. So Alby agreed. Newt never went to the inexhaustible halls of the royal court again. He used to assist to every court with his father and brother. Alby sat on the right of their father’s throne, and Newt to the left. Now it was only Alby on the throne and two empty chairs by his side.

“Do you miss him, little brother?” Alby softly spoke, eyes staring off into the distance. The sound he made was so quiet, as if it was a whisper to no recipient, like he was talking to himself.

“Every day, Alby. Every day.”

“So do I.”

They enjoyed the comfortable silence for a while, simply listening to the breezing sound that the wind brought in and pursuing their own thoughts, until Alby stood up as the noise from his stomach was ruining the serenity of Newt’s sacred place.

“I suggest leaving works behind and having something for lunch. How about that?”

“Sounds great, let’s go then.”

They folded up the papers, carried with them the necessary ones while putting the others back to corresponding vases, and left the room. Alby was walking ahead with Newt following behind. It reminded them of the good old time. Alby often went ahead, teasingly dared Newt to catch him. _Come on little brother you’re slimmer than me. Must run faster then_. Little brother. Alby always called him little brother. Some habits never changed. Some others did. Newt used to run fast, really fast. He used to love running. Now he did not want to mention the old passion again.

As they were heading out of the room, the King then stopped. He looked over his shoulder and softly spoke, “Promise me that you won’t leave the palace like that ever again, little brother.”

A promise. It was simply words after words. Just open your mouth and accept it. I promise to do this. I promise not to do that. I promise not to sneak out of the palace again. The blond knew he would break that promise one day. He simply knew it. So what was the point of promising if you would not keep it?

“I promise.”

Still he nodded nonetheless, because he also knew such easy promise meant a world to his older brother, from who Newt saw a glint of fragility in his eyes. Echoed in his mind the first words Alby said to him when the Prince finally woke up after a week falling in unconsciousness.

_Stay with me, little brother. We only have each other now._

 

 

While walking past the halls to the dining room, they talked about lot of other things, just banal subjects that royal brothers often chattered about.

_Have you laid eyes on some other girls? No Newt I’ve decided to crown you my Queen. How was the court this morning? Well horrible people keep complaining about everything. Poor Alby being Pharaoh more like being Complains Listener. That’s why I want to put you at court so we can share half of those complains. No thanks I don’t want to shorten my longevity. I’m so pissed some Nubian tribes still mess with us at our southern border. Did you send out some warnings? Yes of course little brother and I’ll send out armies as well to end this mess forever._

Before they entered the room, which led to heaven because Alby’s stomach was screaming in agony, the King asked, “I just need to get this clear. Why do you pay that much attention for this particular scribe, Vizu, right? There are a hundred of scribes living all around our territory. Why does this lucky one catch your attention?”

“Because he’s a bloody jerk, that’s why. I’ll explain to you later-”, Newt did not finish his phrase when all of a sudden, screams burst out from a corner of the yard before the dining room’s entrance.

“Intruder!”

They turned to the source of this hubbub and saw a group of soldiers chase after a person who was struggling to get away of their reach.

“Protect Pharaoh, protect the Prince!” Shouted a man who was giving orders to the soldiers. “Seize him!”

Naked feet, the poor man kept running without looking behind. Blood oozing from severe injuries on his back soaked the ragged shendyt around his waist. Like a hopeless and hunted animal, he was now pushed to the dead-end, with great walls in front of him and ferocious soldiers surrounded from behind, whose spears and swords aimed toward the intruder. Terrified, he turned his back just to realize that all ways out were blocked with Egypt’s dreadful soldiers, his hands shaking, every breathe quivering in fear. At that moment, Newt caught a glimpse of the intruder, and he felt his heart leap.

_This boy. Could he be?_

A statue of Anubis5 god stood between the intruder and the closest doorway leading to the outside world. Disregard of all consequences, he made a move to save his life. Eyes were widening in shook when witnessing such blasphemous gestures against the Embalmer God.

Gally, Alby’s most trusted General, had his mouth opened in shock at the action but it was soon replaced by thunderous rage as his eyes seemed to glare daggers at the stranger and his fists clenched tightly. The man was giving commands in order to seize the intruder, angrily yelled, “He’s climbing on the statue of Anubis! Shoot him down. Sacrifice him to our Embalmer God. Anyone who gets me his head will be rewarded.”

“You dumbass…” Newt muttered under his breathes. Then he hurriedly came to the General, leaving a very confused Alby behind.

“Tell your men not to touch him until I give you orders,” Newt ordered as he grabbed the bow of a soldier that was standing nearby, “I’ve got this.”

“But your Highness he’s just- !” The General retorted.

“This is my order,” he replied with such cold voice that made the General instantly stepped back. The man looked to Pharaoh, who was now standing beside him, to seek for some support, but Alby waved him away while observing the scene with curious expression. So it was a no from both royal members. Gally sighed, resisted the urge of letting out a frustrated groaning. The General shouted out to his soldiers that were closing up to the statue’s feet, demanding them to stay away. Though there was a fleeting hesitation spotting on their faces, they obeyed the leader’s order and stood back. However, they still tensed up; even Gally did so, hands tightening around the weapons, gazes fixed on the boy who kept clambering up the status without paying attention to the loosening soldiers below, as if escaping was the only thing that would save him from the upcoming death.

Holding the bow in one hand and an arrow in the other, Newt came closer to said intruder. The closer he approached, the better view he got. Now, he was certain.

_There you are._

Right when he found an ideal spot, the blond positioned himself in a firm stance, placing the iron sharp of his arrow on the wooden bow. Pulling the string backward, the Prince narrowed his eyes, tried to concentrate fully on the target in order to obtain an exact aim. He must not miss. With one deep inhale, he released the string.

The boy cried out as the arrow hit its target. The stabbing pain from his bleeding leg made him lost the hold on the statue’s slippery surface. He fell off and collapsed on the ground.

_Gotcha._

Newt hastily approached the boy, teeth bared to put away the sharp pain stinging from his swollen ankle. Dozens of spears pointed at the fallen victim, who was lying on the ground and curling up in pain. The Prince motioned them to step back as he took a close look on the shaking intruder, whose lips went pale, eyes were tightly shut and breathes came out painfully. He was not going to hold on any longer; meanwhile Gally was ready to end this boy’s life right the moment when he received an order, whether from the Prince or worse, from the Egypt’s Ruler. Decision had to been made now.

“Put him in jail. No one touches him without my permission.”

 

 

“Master Jeff6, you’ve got an urgent letter.” A servant sprinted into the room, breathes ragged from running and sweat trailing from his hairline. Jeff looked up from his papyrus, a confused expression showing on his face.

“Calm down boy. Whose is it?”

The apprentice did not respond, but he seemed anxious when he handed his master a little scroll paper. The physician raised an eyebrow at him while opening the letter. After reading the short message contained within, he frowned and asked the young apprentice, who still stood by his side, “Who gave you this?”

“It was from Master Minho.”

The physician’s face grew darker, but then he quickly stood up and told his trainee, “Prepare my equipment, Clint. Our patient has some severe wounds and broken bones. Be quick. We will leave immediately.” The young apprentice hurriedly arranged all the required equipment in a small wooden chest. In the meantime, Jeff tore the letter to pieces and tossed it into a plant pot. “Maybe the Prince will explain us later.”

_Go to the jail. Must not be seen. Minho is waiting. He will distract the guards to let you in. Room at the end of the first row. There is a boy. Bleeding wounds. Broken bones or ribs. Save him. Destroy this letter. The Prince._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Actually, during Egyptian Antiquity, people used different cardinal directions. It was all in the opposite (North -> South, South -> Nord, East -> West, West -> East). It is believed that their method of orientation was due to the course of the Nile. In my story, I will get rid of this difference and still use our standard cardinal directions.
> 
> 2\. Egyptians of all social classes used eyeliner in their daily life, for religious obligations (veneration of their deities), medical reasons (reducing sun’s glare, providing cooling relief from the heat, trapping errant dust/dirt) and beautifying desires.
> 
> 3\. The village on the west bank of the Nile, where lived the workmen who built the royal tombs in the Valleys of The Kings. Since then, it was freely extended and developed by its inhabitants.
> 
> 4\. Amun: The god of creation in Egyptian religions, one of the most important deities in Ancient Egypt.
> 
> 5\. Anubis: God of Funerals/Death/Mummification
> 
> 6\. Ancient Egyptians didn’t have such name as Newt, Alby, Gally, Jeff, Clint. Often there was a name of a god included in their names (e.g.: Tutankhamun, Amun was the name of their creator god). But I’ve decided to keep the character's original name in my story)


	2. The intruder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A physician and his apprentice sneaked to the jail for a mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tee hee hee after a year I'm finally back. School is over. Summer is coming. Great. Time to sin. Thanks for all your supports for the first chapter. I really appreciate it so much!  
> I've added my little sister as a co-author of this story. Without her I wouldn't have gone this far. Her contributions to my work are, indeed, enormous!

 

At the end, Alby still had to eat alone today, much to the king’s disappointment.

After Newt’s order, the intruder, who was now unable to resist (or to walk properly), was seized and dragged along the way to prison with his wounded legs being scraped on the ground. The boy whimpered in pain, tears stained on his face along with dirt and blood. Newt felt a lump in his throat, but as he can’t really put a reason to it, the blond pushed it aside. Just a stranger, an intruder even, Newt couldn’t and shouldn’t show any pity or sympathy for him. When the crowd was dismissed, Alby came to him so they could finally have lunch together, but Newt’s face grew pale as he appeared clearly tired. The blond gently asked if he could go back to his quarter and get some rest, especially when the sore ankle made him feel uncomfortable and an ache was bumping in his head. He also told Alby not to stay with him in the quarter or to wait for him, because he probably would be asleep for hours. The older brother urged him to go back, take all the rest he needed, even though there was a moment of discontent flickering through his dark eyes.

Newt felt a sudden pang of guilt for leaving (and lying to) his brother like this, but he had no choice. Minho must have already come back this morning, and Newt needed help from his closest friend more than ever.

Right the moment he arrived to his tidy familiar quarter, Newt dashed to a table, hurriedly tore up a small piece of paper on which he then scrawled a short message to Master Jeff, a physician of the royal family, in whom the blonde placed his utmost trust. As soon as his friend stepped into Newt’s room and greeted him with a smile and didn’t really have time to say anything, the blond immediately asked him to send the paper to the physician, _‘as quickly as possible Minho!’_ . Confused and puzzled, Minho did as he said nonetheless. Shortly after the dark haired boy had left, a guard came to the doorway and informed him that, like what he’d expected, the King and the General were waiting in the King’s private throne room. _‘Urgent meeting my Prince’_ , the guard told him respectfully, not wanting to upset the prince who had already appeared very upset. Newt nodded then headed out of the quarter.

 _It’s not going to be a peaceful day_.

 

 

Jeff spent his whole life being a devoted physician and serving royal members, high officials, advisers, even soldiers, guards and servants living in the palace. At first, no one knew about him. Back at that time, he was about Clint’s age now, also apprentice of a normal physician in the royal house. Then one day, he saved a patient who made his name known all over Egypt - a patient for whom Pharaoh would have pay everything to keep him in this world. The young apprentice proved to everyone that despite the young age, he had the gifted talent of curing any kind of diseases and illness, banal or dreadful ones. Time by time, the physician slowly consolidated his reputation and decided to receive a young apprentice, in whom Jeff thought he saw himself.

The royal physician was proud of his personal acquirements. After this day, he was even prouder to add in his autobiography a marvelous new experience about satisfying moody patients and facing unpredictable situations. Such as: secretly going to meet a patient locked in jail, wide eyes always looking out for guards, hiding behind every seems-to-be-safe spot nearby at the sight of any person, eventually snapping at his apprentice who got way too thrilled for clandestine affair, worrying about being caught and really going to jail if the Prince’s plan did not work. Following the master, Clint could not stop giggling. How could the young boy found that a person acted like a dog gone wild funny, Jeff could never know).

“My dear apprentice, do me a favor,” Jeff spoke through gritted teeth, his patience worn thin each second, “please shut your noisy _yaps_.” Jeff’s demand was given in vain, because it only made the trainee exclaimed more excitedly. “But this stuff is awesome! We’re going to take care of a wounded prisoner. By the order of the Prince!”

“Clint, people don’t normally go to jail and get medical care,” Jeff rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to be involved to this kind of affair.”

“Who knows what’s waiting for us?” Clint continued to motivate his unreasonable enthusiasm. _Well, bad omen and maybe wrecked reputations_ , Jeff thought bitterly to himself. The trainee tried to guess the identity of their mysterious patient. “I bet he’s...a spy, or a political prisoner, or even better, a poorly misunderstood friend of the Prince! What do you think Master Jeff?”

The master did not answer, partly because truly he had no clue and mostly didn’t want to push Clint’s enthusiasm to its extreme point. “I shouldn’t have brought you with me. Should’ve known you’d be such annoyance…” Jeff sighed and rubbed his face, now full of regret. Clint just gave him an innocent grin, “I’d secretly go after you anyway. Besides, my master needs someone to carry all these heavy stuffs.” The young apprentice looked at the wooden chest he was holding, containing quite lot of medical equipments. Jeff glared at him, but then he couldn’t help himself not thinking about the Prince’s motive behind this affair.

“Might be an important person, at least for the Prince. Politics are getting complicated these days.”

“Is it because of Master Stephen’s death?”

“Indeed. And he has left behind a vacant position.”

 _A vacant position. The most desired one._ The entire palace and its internal operations were under the vizier’s control. This man was responsible for the safety of the king and the security of Egypt, which meant the police force was also under the vizier’s control. In legal matters, the vizier had the right to act as judge, sentencing and administering punishments on behalf of the king.

Jeff lowered his voiced, “If the king was weak, then the vizierate could be a stepping stone to the throne.”

“Was Master Stephen’s death…normal?” Clint corrected himself when his master raised an eyebrow at him. “Was it because of some anomaly reasons or-”

“Old age. His longevity is already quite impressive for most of us, not everyone can live until fifties like him.” Jeff sighed, remembered of the times where their compassionate vizier was still with them, assisted on every court, gave the kings - yes, the _kings_ including both Alby and the former Pharaoh - wise advices and strategies to build a better kingdom. He still tried to join the king on quotidian court even when he grew weaker, eyes often getting blurry and ears missing words. The man was so generous, and for that the deities took him away in a peaceful sleep in a faraway land of eternity. “That old man was everybody’s friend. He’s in a better place now.”

“The King hasn’t prepared anything? He must see that Master Stephen’s time were about to come. He should’ve indicated someone else to replace his position when Master Stephen was gone.”

 _My trainee will get himself into jail one day if he keeps commenting about royal members with so much nosiness and so less respect._ “I think he still hesitates. Clint, you shouldn’t-” Clint didn’t let his master finish and actively ignored the irritation shown on Jeff’s face, “The King hesitates between the General and the Prince, doesn’t he?”

 _I should strangle him and pretend this conversation never happened_ . Since beginning his career, Jeff positioned himself as a faithful physician who only cared about healing and saving people, thus stood aside from every problem that might involve politics, economy, relationship with foreign territories or whatsoever not concerning medicine and religion. Affairs of the state, he called them. _Not my concern_ , he told himself. He didn’t know if ignorant attitude was too negative, but it spared him enough peace to live in the palace for years. Would today be the day where the perfect impression of a man who gave no opinion about any matter of the government crumbled? Once anyone got themselves involved in these problems, it was hard, even impossible, to run from it, whether they wanted to or not.

He felt a knot in his stomach as he reflected further on this mission. _I should’ve ignored the letter and told the Prince that I’ve never seen it_. Intuitively, Jeff slowed down, as if he tried to contemplate the plan, to go back and assume that all these things never happened. He should do it now, stop right here and tell Clint to come back. But part of him didn’t want to turn his back on the Prince. Was there a chance that he just exaggerated the situation?

There were, indeed, rumors about who would be assigned as the next Vizier, the second most powerful man of all Egypt after Pharaoh. No law forbade one to be both Head of Egypt’s Army and Vizier at the same time, especially when the current General showed his undeniable fighting and leading skills on battlefield and also his constant loyalty to Egypt. Similarly, no law defined that a royal member couldn’t be a Vizier. If the Prince was not so different, his own brother would have assigned him as the next Vizier already. Though, the blond prince never showed that he craved for power. Perhaps this prisoner was simply, as Clint had suggested, a poorly misunderstood friend of his.

But how could you estimate a person anyway? How could you tell whether they were virtuous or malevolent just by basing on everything they purposely showed you?

Clint tugged at his elbow and had him snapped back to reality. They’d arrived to the hallway connecting the King’s Palace and the North Palace while he was still deep in thoughts. The prison was located down a cellar of the North Palace. They had to go past this hallway, length of which Jeff estimated around 400 cubits, without being noticed by guards.

“Follow me. Move as quick as possible. Hey what are you even doing?!” Jeff hissed when he saw Clint walked straightly into said hallway without any hesitation. It was like heading to the prison and secretly taking care of some strange prisoner were normal things that normal people often did in normal life. Well, he never considered his apprentice for a normal person anyway, with all his enthusiasm for whatsoever reasons. He quickly pulled him off the hallway and hid behind a column nearby.

“Who in their right mind would walk like you in this situation?!”

“We’ll get all the attention if we sneak like escaping criminals.” Clint protested, immediately received a glare from his master. “We sneak like escaping criminals because in some sense we are ones!”

Clint rolled his eyes, appeared clearly tired of Jeff’s exaggerating anxiety. They’d just passed not even a tenth of the way, and were now stuck behind a column. Fortunately the North Palace was houses to servants and few prisoners, those considered as ‘very less important people in this place’. Therefore there were not much people passing through the hallway this time because all servants must have gone to work now.

“Why are there not many guards? Oh don’t look at me like that. I don’t wish for us to be caught out or something worse. But I thought lot of them must be disposed there to watch over the prisoners? It’s…just a hallway separating the prison and the King’s Palace. Isn’t it too...dangerous?” Clint of course never ceased his infinite list of questions. Thus his master had to reply before things got worse.

“No, not really. The North Palace locks in its cellar very few prisoners, mostly ‘fresh’ ones. New prisoners will be kicked down there, and wait until they got transferred to another prison, not in this palace. A bigger prison locates somewhere out there, I don’t know for sure. Some will also be locked here to prepare for…interrogation process, involving important matters. Normally they wouldn’t make it out of the cellar after that. So, it’s pretty much empty down there.”

They were still waiting for brilliant idea coming from either one of them. None spoken yet, until Clint’s eyes widened in surprise as he tugged at his master’s elbow and exclaimed, “Master Jeff, that’s Master Minho!”

Clint pointed at said person, who appeared out of the blue (but probably he’d just left the King’s Palace like they had) on the hallway. In a short moment when he walked past them (who were still hiding behind that column), he said something, soundless. Perhaps they were quite far from him to hear what he said, or he intended not to make any sound. So that could be a sign from Minho, who had been assigned to be another partner in crime.

“He wants us to wait here.”

Jeff couldn’t hide his surprise. “How could you tell that?”

“Minho has just said so.” Clint just shrugged, as if the soundless sound Minho had made was obviously comprehensible to everyone. “He told us to wait.”

Clint continued because his master still stared at him with confused expression. “Master, when he walked past us, he said ‘Wait’. I can tell it by the movement of his mouth.”

Minho quickly walked through the long hallway and got to the other end of it, with Jeff and Clint carefully watching him from far behind. There were two guards on the entrance of the North Palace.

“Clint, can you see them?”

“Yes, Master. I think so.”

“What is Minho doing?”

“Master Minho is talking to the guards. But I don’t understand. Why is he here? How does he even know we’re here?”

“The Prince told me Minho would distract the guards for us. In the letter.”

Clint’s mouth formed an O as he whispered. “Awesome! Even Master Minho is on our side!”

“Great. Great. Get excited later. What’re they doing now?”

“More guards are coming out from inside the palace. Five in total until now. And…they...they’re leaving! Even Master Minho is leaving with them! There’s no more guard at the entrance!” Clint’s eyes widened in surprise as he pointed at the vacant area where the guards just left.

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yes, Master. It’s empty now!”

Once they entered that place, there was no coming back. Maybe there was already no coming back since the letter arrived to his hand in the first place. And it was too late to head back now.

“Let’s go! Let’s go! Quick!”

Then they left the hiding place and ran as fast as possible to their wanted destination. _We are officially into troubles now_ , Jeff thought at the moment they ran through the entrance.

 

 

They managed to enter the North Palace, now found themselves standing in an empty corridor. In the left, it was the quarter built for servants. To their right, they saw plain wall with a doorway at its end. Guards were led away. Minho had done a quite good job.

“Run to that doorway,” the master said as he pointed at it, “that’s the entrance to the cellar.” They hastily ran through this narrow corridor and stopped right before the doorway. Hesitantly, Jeff looked inside to check if there was still someone staying on the cellar. Looking straight into the room behind, he saw another corridor, much smaller and darker. A burning torch attached to the wall lit up the small room, at the end of which there was a wooden table and some unoccupied chairs placed around. Perhaps some jailers or guards had sat there. It was empty now. Jeff motioned his trainee to follow into the room. They then turned to the left, where appeared a stair leading to the jail built below the North Palace.

“Watch your steps,” Jeff murmured as they carefully went down the stairs and into the dark, humid and stinky prison.

As instructed, they arrived to a room at the end of the first row, inside of which they saw a man lying face downwards on the ground. Dim lights from few torches hung on the roof didn’t tell them much about the man’s state. His back was covered in gashes and dried blood. Blood from a seemingly new wound on the left leg slowly oozed. The man was lying still without any movement, not even the slightest breath, as if life had already left him. Jeff felt the apprentice who was standing behind him tensed up and swallowed. _Good, so you do feel scared_ , he humorously thought, then pushed the door open to get in.

“It’s…locked?” Jeff sounded confused as he tried to push harder, thus creating clacking noises. “Why is it still locked?” _Damn it._ _Why didn’t I think about it first?_

“Does the Prince give you the key, or…anything useful?”

“No, only that letter. I thought the cell would be already opened before we got here,” the physician sighed in disbelief, “the Prince expected us to save a wounded man with metal bars standing between us?”

Abruptly, they both felt a hand gripping tightly on their shoulder.

“What do you think you are doing?”

 

 

They sat quietly in the King’s private throne room, a small and discreet space reserved for personal meeting of royal members. The King sat on his throne, as always (but sometimes unwillingly) being the center of literally everything that happened inside the palace, while the Prince sat on a chair on the left of his brother’s, undisguised weariness growing in his eyes. While the two brothers remained approximately calm, Gally was showing completely opposite emotions of his own. He sat down, then stood up, paced back and forth in the room until it bored him, then he came back to his chair and began that process once again, eyes glancing respectively at the King and the Prince. Newt buried his face in his hand, let out an irritated groan and finally blurted out.

“Speak it out loud, Gally. Stop giving us vertigo.”

Obviously Gally was waiting for that order since the three of them had gathered to the King’s private throne room, like a predator spying on its prey. He burst out in exasperation. “Your Highness, please forgive me, but why did you decide put him in jail? An intruder caused chaos in the palace and offended our Embalmer God Anubis, yet everything you’ve done is shooting him in the _leg_ and put that horrid criminal in prison! He should’ve been _dead_ by now!”

Newt patiently replied to the angry Gally. “Listen. First, I want you to stop killing everyone that you’ve ever suspected. Second, stop killing them before they could provide useful information, such as: how did he bloody get inside the palace in the middle of the day,” the blonde raised his voice as the General was ready to retort, “I won’t force you to invite them to dinner and have friendly conversations. But one thing for sure, no one likes babbling with _dead_ bodies. My devoted General, I’d like to remind you: as a General of Egypt’s armies, you’re supposed to assure the _absolute_ security of this palace! And yet you let an intruder cause such chaos in our home.”

The Prince’ last statement as well as his unexpected authority made the General froze in his place. Soon, Gally bowed his head low as his cheeks flushed bright red, of embarrassment or anger. “Forgive me, your Majesty’’. Although his eyes were hidden from Newt, the Prince was sure there was a hint of guilt in them. He nodded, accepting the apologies.

Gally opened his mouth to say something in reply, but then stopped in his tracks and stayed quiet, eyes looking on the ground. He put one hand on his hips while using the other to stroke his chin as he considered the Prince’s opinion. After a while, he looked up and spoke, “Your Highness, so you kept that man alive just to get information from him?”

“Yes. When you’re given something, try using it before throwing it away,” the Prince answered as his voice softened a bit, “the accident this morning worries me. If a normal man can break into our home easily, so does a group of well trained assassins.”

Alby, who did not say anything since the beginning, slowly spoke, “Worry not, my dear General. That man’s life is in our hands now. Newt is right. We need to know how he entered the palace without being caught. Do anything you think is necessary to make him spit out the truth. After that,” Alby lightly waved his hand, “kill him.”

“Yes, if that’s your final decision, your Highness,” the General nodded, “I’ll finish it today.”

“No.”

Both Alby and Gally turned to the Prince, who had just denied the General’s suggestion, thus refused Alby’s order. Alby frowned, but after that his face showed unreadable expression - the older brother was excellent in hiding emotions. Meanwhile Gally was, needless to say, quite shocked and was at the edge to go mad again, for not being given the chance to kill anyone. Newt immediately regretted this hasty reply, because he had not cautiously thought before letting that curt reaction escape out of his mouth. Alby still leaned back on the throne whereas his fingers began to rhythmically tap on the armrest, saying nothing while holding his gaze straight into Newt’s eyes.

“No?” The Egypt’s sovereign frowned, one corner of his mouth slightly raised up in a way that Newt thought Alby was smirking at him. “Little brother, what do you mean?” The question hung in the air. Even Gally did not dare to say anything in regard of Newt’s sudden response as he felt a tense atmosphere creeping into the room. Trying to hold a straight look into his brother’s questioning eyes, Newt discreetly swallowed, but then he lightly tilted his head to one side and shrugged as absently as he could. “Because Gally won’t do it alone. I’ll go with him to interrogate our intruder.”

The King raised one of his eyebrows at Newt. Alby’s jaw moved in such subtle motion, almost invisible, but Newt still felt its stiffness; Alby’s rhythmic tap had stopped, he now leaned forward with his elbows pressing on the armrest and fingers intertwined, hiding part of Alby’s face while skeptical eyes were still fixed on the Prince.

“So you’re interested in interrogating prisoners now?”

Newt smiled wryly, “It’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

“Thought you wanted to take a rest. You’ve whined about headaches, and even skipped lunch. But now, look at you, my little brother,” Alby gestured at him, “wants to trail that pitiful swollen ankle around, so curious about inflicting a prisoner. Seems like I’m not the only one who is unpredictable.”

Newt did not answer. This was not the person he wanted to talk to. This was not his caring brother. This was another Alby, whom he had desperately tried to chase away.

Gally, taking some courage, earnestly spoke to the King. “Your Highness, please consider the Prince’s suggestion. It’s a good idea that he could join me-”

Alby’s burst of laughter interrupted Gally in the middle of his sentence.  “Now even my General wants to act on his own?”

It totally shut him up. The room sank in a dreadful silence. Each one followed his own thoughts while avoiding others’ look.

Then, Alby gave a small gesture. He waved them away. “Go then. Have fun and help me ruling this kingdom.”

 

 

They walked along the hallways, passed enormous columns lining in two parallel rows, by the side of which guards were constantly watching over every corner of these infinite halls and bowed at them respectfully as the Prince and the General passed by. The remained tension from their short meeting still weighed on every step they took, at least until they reached the opened entrance, where air became fresher and breezes washed over their body. Newt took a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling deeply to drive away the anxiousness. Gally noticed it, though he commented nothing. Newt paused, one hand pressed on a column before the entrance to support his whole body when his feet failed at it. Back to the moments where they had left the King, Newt forced himself to walk, properly and stubbornly, while his _pitiful swollen ankle_ screamed in protest. Once they were outside, he could no longer handle the stinging pain.

Gally looked at him worriedly. “Your Highness, you should go back to your quarter. I can handle this on my own.”

“I was enjoying my peaceful rest, then you, and the King, summoned me to this meeting,” Newt sounded irritated. “Well, I’m here now. Let’s get it done already.”

Newt straightened himself up, got ready to go, actually, to limp, across the large yard lying between the King’s Palace and the North Palace, where was located the cellar.

“Tell me about the intrusion this morning. Before Alby and I arrived. How did it happen?”

“I was waiting for you and the King in front of the dining room. Servants were preparing the meals. The King doesn’t like having any stranger in the room while he eats, you already know that,” Newt nodded when Gally looked at him, “as soon as they’d done, they left. There was nobody inside at the moment, I had checked. So, I went outside and waited. But then, sudden noises came from the room; something fell on the ground. I went back in and saw the bowl of grilled pigeons had, indeed, crashed on the ground. I thought the servants had been negligent and put it too close to the table’s edge. I was about to call them back, fix it quickly before your arrival, but when looking down, I saw drops of blood on the ground. I bent down to check. They were new, not dried blood. Someone had been, or was still, in the room and had caused that bowl to fall down. Right when I looked under the table, I saw a man dashing out and rushing to the door. I immediately ran after him, shouted out to guards to seize that man. That was when you two arrived.”

Newt thought about that scene. He stroked his chin, frowned as he tried to guess the intruder’s motive. “Alright, we have an intruder who sneaked into the King’s Palace in the middle of the day, hid in the dining room, probably waited for us. I’m sorry but for me it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe he attempted to poison you both.”

“He’d disguise as a servant. It’d be easier. And no one in their right mind would do it with bleeding wounds on their back. It…doesn’t make any sense, really.”

“We’ll know the truth soon, after some lashing.” Newt flinched at these words, but it seemed the General did not notice it. “Just hope that he hasn’t died yet.”

Gally realized that there actually was a pretty high chance that their prisoner, due to loss of blood and perhaps severe infections, could be dead already. He speeded up a bit, but still made sure that Newt could follow (by limping) besides him.

“Alby still takes his treatment regularly?”

Taken aback by Gally’s unexpected question, the Prince hesitated for a moment, then he nodded, concern shown on face. “Yes. Besides, our physicians also make him through cleansing rituals every morning. It’ll make the evilness go away, they say.”

“I hope he can return to who he was.”

“He’s just overwhelmed. This morning he talked to me. He was...normal. He is still our Alby.” Newt said it out loud unintentionally, as if he was trying to convince himself. _Caring and reasonable Alby, kind and joyous Alby. He is still there. Still our Alby_.

“Not completely our Alby. Something else’s with him,” Gally lowered his voice, “we both see that.”

“Being Head of Army doesn’t mean you’re no more a servant of the King. And you’re supposed to wish your King get cured soon, not to point out how sick he’s become!” Newt angrily retorted. He noticed Gally being taken aback by his infuriated reaction. “Alby will be alright. The cure works, as it’s keeping him sane through all these years.”

 _All these years_ , Newt listened to himself. It was not as long as these words sounded. All these years lasted for 3 years. Alby’s changing had begun since their father’s death, in a subtle way, like the continuous changing of sand dunes. At first, it was a few sand grains that got carried away. You could not see how many grains disappeared after each blow of the wind. Finest grains were suspended in the air and carried along. Heavier ones tended to bounce along as they were lifted into the air, fall back to the ground, and then bounce back up again. All moved incessantly, formed a silent symphony of the nature as time went by. One day, you looked back, startled to see the endless sand dunes completely change its form, so different that we did not recognize them anymore.

 

 

“Get him out.” Gally ordered to a jailer, who then went to the prisoner’s room, while the General took hold of a raw whip on which dark red stains of dried blood reminded people of its previous victims. Newt sat on a badly built chair, feeling uncomfortable because that chair had been built so badly, and because of things that were going to happen. Gally, one hand on his hip and the other unconsciously stroked the raw whip, waited patiently for the lashing session. It was how the interrogation of prisoner would proceed in most case. He did not express any particular interest in this mission. Gally was not brutal after all. They knew each other for a long time, when things were much simple: Newt - youngest amongst the three of them, often got bored after few hours wandering around the palace, Alby didn’t have to rule any kingdom, Gally was eventually lured away from his regular battlefield training session by these two brothers (or smoothly slipped away on his own free will), and the problem that got the three kids very concerned was what games to play today. Growing up was hard, whether they lived in a palace or not. Gally could be harsh sometimes, and often arrogant, but not cruel. He simply did what he needed to. He was trained for it.

Said jailer who had returned looked frightened, so was the news he announced.

“He’s dead.”

“What? Are you sure?” It was Gally who spoke first. However, he didn’t seem very surprised at this. He’d already assumed that the prisoner wouldn’t have any chance to survive, although he’d hoped that he would last long enough to tell them how he sneaked into the palace.

“Yes, Master Gally. I think, he…he is dead. He doesn’t wake up, and I don’t hear him breathing anymore.” Poor jailer looked pale, voice shaking, as if that prisoner’s death was entirely his fault. Gally threw the whip aside and sighed in frustration. Newt said nothing, fingers slowly stroking his chin. He stood up from the chair and went ahead to the cell where their prisoner was being held, with Gally and the worried jailer going after him.

The door of that cell was left opened. Newt scowled at the jailer with discontent. “Don’t ever leave the door opened when you leave! Prisoners might just pretend to be dead. With your generously opened door, they could escape straight away.” Before entering the humid and stinky cell, he saw scared jailer nod at his reproach, and now even Gally glared at him for making such basic mistake. Newt sat down beside the boy’s body, searched for the pulses. None. He put a finger near the boy’s nose to see if there was still any sight of life. Nothing. He laid the boy lying flat on the ground, just to see a face that lost its color with lips growing pale. At the touch, Newt already felt the cold of the dead body clinging on his fingers. He looked at Gally and shook his head. Then it was the General’s turn to check it, for sure. He too conceded that their prisoner was dead.

“What should we deal with it now?” Gally asked as he pointed to the cold body lying at their feet.

“Well, we can’t use it anymore.” Rubbing his hands together to brush off the dirt and some dried blood, the blond looked at Gally, who seemed a bit annoyed about this, and shrugged. “So just throw it away.”

“We could sacrifice him to the God of Embalmer.” Newt felt the urge to roll his eyes and (almost) screamed in disbelief. _Gally could you please quit being obsessed about sacrifices for only one day_. Gally, obviously, could not hear the blond’s internal scream. “Pulling out his heart and drying out his blood-”

“No Gally. I’m afraid this perished body would be no use, even could be considered as an awful insult to Anubis. Just throw him to the desert and let the vultures do their job. At least we’ll be able to feed the envoys of Nekhbet1.”

 

 

He felt himself being lift up. Carried along. Thrown down on the ground. Not the solid ground. Not really. Softer, with tiny grains itching underneath his numb body. Maybe sand. Maybe sand. He did not know.

He was lying face downward on the ground, or sand. He was dead, or very close to. His mouth dry. His back burning, burning and painful. Couldn’t move. Even his leg was sending agonizing pain. Where did that pain come from?

Hard to breathe. He opened his mouth, trying to get some air as his lung ached. Sand poured in mouth and nose. Eyes were tight shut. Darkness surrounded him. He couldn’t feel anything but weariness. And pain. He struggled, struggled for life.

Then he felt himself being lift up again. Maybe to a better place this time. Maybe to a better place.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The goddess of Upper Egypt, symbolized by vultures, protector of Egypt and of Pharaoh


	3. The rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooohhh I'm back I'm the slowest writer there ever was ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ At first this chapter wasn't that long but thanks to mah beta reader because of her comment at my 1st draft, I had to rewrite and rewrite until the words count doubled ʘ‿ʘ ?!?
> 
> Anyway, thanks to all of you for supporting me and my fic since the beginning! I truly, truly hope we will stay together until the very end (｡♥‿♥｡)

 

 

Guarding the entrance of a luxurious huge palace was a honored job. Entrusted to stand as the last and strongest defense against all malicious wills aiming at royal members, you were expected to guarantee the palace’s utmost safety during brightest days and darkest nights, to selflessly prioritize your masters’ well-being over yours, to give up everything you had for Egypt’s supreme ruler and his family.

Theoretically, that was the job description.

Practically, you rooted at the entrance of Malkata Palace1, a tattered shendyt around your waist, your head covered with self-provided kerchief so that the scorching sunrays wouldn’t burn your brain thus drive you insane, equipped with a blunt spear as weapon that you must remember to sharpen every day, alongside an ugly and equally useless wooden disc-shaped of a shield which was pointless since there was no way you could hold that heavy thing the whole day.

Strict supervision established around Malkata, it was utterly secured with infantrymen who regularly marched around the Nile borders, patrolled all crowded places - markets, villages, works under construction, seized every suspicious individual in sight. In water, several armed ships went back and forth routinely on the Nile to eliminate any strange ship or boat that might risk Egypt’s security. Not to mention groups of disciplined archers distributed all over the upper halls on top of four high walls of Malkata Palace, ready to attack at order.

So, if one day you _really_ had to fight back a massive and impetuous army that rushed toward the entrance, it meant all other well-trained armies of Egypt had failed and you were one hundred percent doomed. To flee or not to flee, that wasn’t really a question because if you decided to stay you’d surely die, in vain.

Though, things got easier if you guarded the West Gate, where not much (important) people visited during the day (or the night). Soldiers, officials, armies, leaders, princes, princesses, the Pharaoh himself, all avoided entering the Palace by this gate because its limited size and poorly decorated doors altogether would ‘dishonor’ people belonging to upper social classes. Only merchants, farmers or servants went inside by the West Gate.

Apart from staring at the gate passionately, opening and closing it were another duty, though the gate was kept wide open for most of the day to let people go in and out easier. They were also charged to process a thorough searching on anyone who wanted to cross the gate (except the Pharaoh neither the Prince nor people with noble titles). Most of them were harmless anyway. _Only soldiers can bring weapon inside Sir. No Madam please leave your small bottle outside until you finish talking to the king. We’re sorry lady but you cannot go outta here unless you put that golden statue hid in your bag back to where it came from_. Fortunately the last task kept them somewhat occupied throughout the day, or else things might get quite...

“Booorrrriiiiiingggggg!” Exclaimed a young man while leaning on the upright spear held loose in his hands. The boredom was even more highlighted by two droopy eyes on his face. Giving him an unimpressed look, his supposed-to-be colleague snorted in place of an answer. How many times did the youngster complain since the start of their guard? _Nah I lost count_. Five months of guard at the gate had him quite familiar to this kind of whining. Five months were a relatively short time for people to have enough of their job. Ben muttered under his breath. _Shit ass of a place and one freaking hell of a job. Yet I am still here_.

“Talk to me bro,” the whining man called out to him, “Bored out of my skull here!”

Ben kept his mouth shut, but purposely showed up the rope-like veins coming out of his neck as a threat. The more he stood here, the more he regretted his stupid choice. Being a useless guard instead of growing up a builder as his family’s tradition. He’d even left home as a _claim of free will and choice_ , had never come back since then. All those chaotic life-changing decisions brought him here - to this plain place, to the same area, every day, where he felt wasted away by the monotonous activities. The innocent excitement of first day being an honored soldier to look after Malkata Palace’s entrance had been replaced by a withered soul, dreaded every morning he woke up. _I shouldn’t be here. My life isn’t supposed to be like this_.

“Broooo! Beeeeen! Are you deeeaaaaf?!” Shouted out the young man whose family clearly forgot to teach how to recognize people’s frustration and shut his mouth at the right time. Feeling like the last piece of patience had been crashed down, Ben growled through gritted teeth, glared menacingly at the other guard. “Zart. Shut.your.fucking.stinky.mouth.up! One more whimper and I swear-”

He was about to teach Zart how to close own mouth and make no more sound with much more violence than expected (and permitted), disregard of all consequences (Ben was ready to be dismissed anyway, so he didn’t give a flying fuck about it) right when two men, who had appeared from nowhere, showed up and accidentally saved Zart’s ass, much to Ben’s chagrin. They hurriedly approached the gate while carrying a large wooden chest which appeared to be at least 2-cubit high and 4-cubit long2. Although faces turning awfully greasy by sweat and apparent tiredness, two carriers gleefully started talking to the guards nevertheless.

“As bored as usual huh?” Panting, they placed the wooden chest on the ground when arriving right in front of the entrance gate. ”Finally can get rid of this freaking shit.” Zart was, needless to say, thrilled to see people approaching the entrance, asking him for the permission to go through it, which gave the bored guard a chance to have some _real_ conversations and get loose a bit. Guarding was a dull job already, it was more tense when he had to do it with Ben the Grumpy all the time.

“You shanks know the process already. Open the chest. We’ll check for whatever contained within, then feel free to pass the gate.”

Two newly arrived guys quickly exchanged a nervous look as their face grew apprehensive. One scratched his head whereas the other darted his eyes away from Zart. “It’s...complicated. Truly want to let you open it. We do. But...”

“But?” Zart raised his voice, unable to hide the excitement when seeing people get themselves into trouble. This chest was definitely a trouble. A big one. Finally a funny story to tell other dudes about his not-so-lame job.

“Shame. You’ll have to leave it here then.”

“Come one!” Exclaimed the stocky carrier. “Winston and I have gone through a long way to get here!”

“Hey, don’t mean to waste away your _hard_ work, I simply ask you to open the chest, agree? Safety for the Palace dudes!” While Zart was getting serious about a guard’s honorable duty, Ben remained unimpressed and ignorant of basically everything around him.

“It’s our Master’s order not to open this shit until it is delivered to his place. We really cannot go against his command guys!” The two started to look pleading as they continued to beg for permission.

“Oh yeah? Whose order? Wanna monkey around with Egypt’s fearless guards huh? Tell me who’s your shucking master and Imma kick his ass-”

“I am _their_ master.”

Startled, Zart instantly turned around to see where that voice came from, only to grow all pale from head to toe when catching the sign of the Chief of Egypt’s Infantry on his famous hands-on-hip posture.

“And it is _my_ order not to open the fucking chest.”

The infantry leader’s unexpected presence also surprised Ben and woke the guy up from his daily boredom. Such noble figure would never, and had never bothered to, come here. If the Palace was compared to a human body, then this gate would proudly be somewhere close to the asshole. It was far to reach from all roads and villages nearby. Ben glanced at his supposed-to-be colleague, whose face drained of blood, mouth wide opened. The scene was kinda amusing. Zart recoiled in sheer horror, while Winston and Frypan looked at each other, tried to hold the laughing, as if they’d already known things were supposed to happen this way.

Zart stuttered as he attempted to save his own arse from being slayed. “Master Minho… What a pleasure for us to have you here...today...at this moment.”

“What’s fucking wrong here? I’ve been waiting for decades in my room for this shucking chest,” he angrily pointed at said object, “What the fuck are you doing with my stuffs?” That question was, definitely, not aimed at Winston nor Frypan.

“Master Minho, please calm down. We’re just doing our duty. All who want to cross the gate must be examined first.” Zart glanced away guiltily right when Minho glowered at him. “We only ask them to open the chest. Nothing else.”

“That’s it? That’s all? You’re bugging my men ‘cause they refuse to violate my fucking private property? Damn seems I’ll have to give _them_ a lesson about essential respect toward people’s privacy.”

Ben interfered the intense dialogue when Zart came right onto the verge of having a heart attack. “Please. Master Minho, we only want to guarantee the Palace’s safety. That’s what we’ve vowed to do.”

“Fine.” Grumbled a frustrated Minho. “Let’s not waste each other’s time any longer. Frypan, Winston, open it. Nothing to hide.”

They did as their master’s command, revealed a chest full of dried flowers and aromatic herbs within. The mixed scent was pleasant, though it was a little condensed.

“Well, it looks perfectly fine to me.” Zart hesitantly confirmed, whereas Ben observed all over the chest for a few seconds. Wanting to cool off the tense atmosphere, Zart friendly asked, “What are these for? Smell good.”

Minho snorted, “For my girlfriend. Ah, girlfriends for exactly (he insisted on the ‘s’ sound). Terrible women. Just been back from battles this morning. What’s the first thing they ask me? ‘ _Have you brought anything back for me my love_ ? (he quoted this with so much bitterness) _Nothing huh. Fuck off my bed. I wasted my youth waiting for you, and deserve this horrid ignorance’._ I’ve been gone for three weeks 3! Not decades. But, shame, cannot live without the booty.” The last statement was delivered with a pair of wiggling eyebrows.

Winston and Frypan laughed. Zart also, awkwardly, laughed along.

In the meantime, Ben was still checking on the chest, even attempted to shift it a little bit (which immediately drew Minho’s attention, brought him back to the previous irritated mood). It was heavier than Ben expected, especially when there were only dried flowers and herbs inside. He frowned, “Looks fine for me. But that’s kinda heavy for dried flowers though.”

“You know what? It’s fucking heavy because hidden inside was a delicate statue made by reputed craftsmen of this whole kingdom.” He shooed Ben away when this one made an attempt to plunge into the flowers and hurled at both guards. ”Who do you think you are to dig it up like that?! I don’t want the most special part of my present first touched by _you_! Get your filthy hands off! What? Who the statue for? Among my girlfriends? For the one who beds me the best at night. All clear? Please move out of the way so my men can bring this damn box inside, or else I’ll sleep alone tonight. Which I’m not looking forward to and neither are you.”

 

 

After the three of them were long gone, Zart exhaled as he sat down on the ground. His legs felt numb after a long day steadily standing in front of the entrance, and because of that unexpected visit.

“Thought he was going to slay our ass.” He sighed in relief and looked at Ben, who remained quiet. Leaning his back against the rough wall, Ben stared off into the distance for a mere moment. Finally, he snapped back to reality, returned to his watch on the gate without saying anything relevant about Master Minho and his generous present.

 

 

Arriving to the Queen’s (Newt’s unofficial) quarter, they slowed down, tried to appear as innocent as possible. Minho signed at Winston and Frypan, who were following right behind, carrying a large wooden chest, to bring it inside the quarter.

They passed through rooms and halls with elegant decoration of vivid floral pattern carved on the walls accompanied by blue waves of the Nile painted on the floor. The largest room, which Winston and Frypan assumed to be the main place where would occur most of the future queen’s activities, was paved with brightly colored tiles which turned the room into a party of colors when reflecting the radiant sunbeams. Their feet felt smooth and cool when walking on glossy tiles that had absorbed the chilly temperature of previous cold nights, thus didn’t get so heated up when the morning sun laid its glowing beams onto the floor. As if the Queen’s quarter had been fully prepared to welcome its new occupant.

Except that there was no Queen living here at the moment but the Pharaoh’s brother. As what people knew the Prince didn’t ‘officially’ live here, however he was often seen in the Queen’s quarter. And Egypt’s sovereign happily accepted it. Things were bloody weird in the royal family.

“Golden shits everywhere Wins! It’s like falling down a gold mine.” Frypan whispered  enthusiastically as they went through splendid chambers with lavish furnitures filling in. “That much luxury for only one Queen,” he shook his head like that was the biggest mystery he’d ever beheld.

“Happy wife happy life my friend. Nothing much changed since the last time I came here. Well except for that room ahead,” Winston said as they entered the (Newt’s) library. “Haven’t seen such nerdy place before. Must be new. Geek what does the Prince even do here? Eat papers to live?” He glanced at four corners of the room, lousy with vases of many shapes with scrolls of papyrus paper contained within, while trying not to bump the chest against these vases.

“Yo shank ‘s been here? When?” asked Frypan with surprise.

“Only once. The King’s Mother called me in. Lady Neferu wanted to give something to Master Stephen. Dunno why she asked me though. Maybe I happened to be there at the moment. Or all her servants went party somewhere,” Winston shrugged when his friend wondered why the former Queen even bothered to call him. When asked him about the thing Lady Neferu wanted to send Vizier Stephen, Winston frowned. Truly strange. There was no letter. Only two uncorrelated objects, vague meaning of which had been carved onto the depth of Winston’s memory. A lion figurine and a nenuphar.

He was going to tell his friend about it, but all of a sudden, the former Queen’s languished appearance with a smile forced on her distressed face that day altogether came back, like a wave of memory that always floated inside his head. Lady Neferu, years ago, was widely known throughout the vast territory of Egypt for her enchanting beauty. This luxurious residence itself was an irrefutable proof of the former Pharaoh’s favor for his Queen. She gave birth to a boy. Alby. Witty, clever, charming prince. Her first born child. The only one. Her health deteriorated afterwards. Until one day, Egypt’s greatest beauty was no more. Alby turned 9 two days later.

The moment Lady Neferu handed over to Winston those two objects, her eyes were telling something. Sorrow? Weariness? Fear? Winston couldn’t make it out. It seemed keeping the story to himself was the most rational choice right now.

“Nah, forgot what was that already.”

Frypan’s face showed a fleeting disappointment, but he just raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Probably a letter, or some sort similar. Politics are pretty null you know.”

 _Or deadly_. Winston thought to himself.

“Lady Laelia was also a stunning woman, right?” Frypan said with admiration. ”‘A strange flower coming from the Mediterranean sea’, I remember people call her like that when she first set foot here. No wonder why the former King liked her that much. Even when she was a foreigner. Poor lady didn’t even get to-”

Minho decided to interrupt when he saw that their conversation might have gone too far. Spending half of his life in the palace got him an earful of gossips about, well, anything and everything. Same story told by different people. “You bonkers, don’t get your nose on royal families. Now stop here. Wait for me.”

They’d just entered a side room of the library. Minho vanished into _another_ side room of this one. _There’s even another room in this tiny cave?_ Frypan whispered. Minho came back almost immediately.

“Perfect. Open it. Quick! Don’t let him stifle inside!”

 

 

“Join us Boss? Shanks are bringing awesome beer and grub,” Frypan happily said when his imagination wandered over the upcoming party organized by soldiers themselves, celebrating their triumphant end of a trip to the distant southern border of Egypt. Leisurely walking out of the quarter, they went not so far away, then stopped. Leaning against a column, Minho placed crossed arms on his chest, a falsely relaxed look purposely shown on his face. Just like a normal group having some pleasant chat in a hallway, casually waving to any person passing by. The place was quite empty at this point of the day, where officials, advisers and even the King were supposed to take a nap in their private chambers after a (usually) big lunch. Winston lowered his voice and added, face thrilling with excitement, “Beer, grub, girls! Finally gotta get laid after almost a month goofing around the border.”

Minho laughed nonchalantly. “Sounds wild. Afraid I can’t make it. Just go ahead and get yourself wasted without me. I’m going to stay with the Prince tonight.” The Chief of Infantry quickly continued before two of them started bitching about their boss’ ‘heartless attitude toward the whole team’s glorious victory, “I’ll pay you back. Promised. Now blow out of here. Try not to draw any shucking attention.”

After Winston and Frypan had left (and probably headed straight to their enthusiasting party), Minho carefully looked around the hallway before turning back inside the Queen’s quarter. He hastened to come back in the small chamber, where Newt and Jeff were putting their extreme efforts on saving the prisoner’s life.

 

 

When Minho came back, Jeff was hurriedly preparing all needed equipments with the Prince’s help while the prisoner lied motionless in a corner, on a thing that didn’t even deserve to be called bed. Basically it was made from a grimy sheet covering heap of straws beneath, which created a layer thick enough to separate him from the hard ground below, keep his spot dry and warm from the cold of chilly nights. Built up as a (second) storage room and actually considered as the side room _of_ the side room of the large library, this chamber barely received any attention of the builders, lacked of all domestic cares, comfort, and decoration. The fact that this tiny cave was able to fit three grown up men within, excluding the one who appeared pretty much dead on the bed, was something so magical already. One only window - or exactly a rectangular-shaped hole - was carved high up near the rooftop to let faint rays of sunlight into the room. Everything about this place was so deeply discouraging for people who wished to have their wounds nicely healed.

Though, it was better than rotting in a dark, humid and stinky jail room.

“Minho, light up a lamp for me. That one, yes yes that one.” Jeff ordered as he pointed at said lampstand placed on the small wooden table under the tiny window. “Pour some oil inside. The oil ‘s in the bowl under the table.”

When Minho had managed to light up the dusty lamp, _how long has it been here damn there’s even spider web along its body, come on shucking wick just burn up already_ , he quickly gave it to Jeff. Within this tiny hole, he only needed to turn his body around and might bump against either Jeff or Newt. The physician didn’t take the lamp, instead he nodded at Minho, asked him to hold it and shine on any place Jeff might need more lights on. Few vases of water were placed at the end of the bed. Minho accidentally bumped against them when sitting down, causing a part of the water inside to spill onto the floor.

Newt was patiently sitting on Jeff’s left while Minho placed himself on the right, holding the lamp to light up the tiny room, waiting for any demand. Newt kept looking at the boy, who looked like a terrible mess, bruised face, body covered in scratches, crossed gashes on back, and mostly, didn’t breathe. No rise and fall were seen from his bare chest. He was straightly dead, or looked very much alike. Perhaps it was how he was supposed to be like, Minho guessed, after what Jeff had shortly done to him down the jail, not to mention the poor boy had to be transferred, by Newt’s order, all the way to the desert scorched by heat from the blazing sun. From the palace to the desert then from the desert back to the palace again That was a long way to go, although it lasted only about few minutes. He seemed much weaker than when Minho had seen him lying in the dark, sickly jail, where the guy had still breathed, albeit discontinuously, and had enough force to resist as Jeff forced him to drink some sort of powder - white, tiny grains. But afterwards his feebly remaining strength was gone. He lied flat on the cold, humid ground, Jeff checked his veins, listened to his heartbeat for one last time before standing up and hurriedly leaving the place altogether with Clint and Minho.

_“He’ll stop breathing in a few more minutes,” assured Jeff._

_“What the heck Jeff?! I thought we gotta save him?!” exclaimed a puzzled Minho._

_“Yes. We are saving him from the upcoming investigation down here. Or he must appear dead or he won’t make it out of here,” Jeff calmly explained._

_“Newt told you to do it?” asked Minho._

_“No he just said ‘save him’ in the tiny letter you gave me not long ago. Sure we cannot just carry him out of the prison. We’ll get ourselves down the jail too if someone catch us. So I’ll have to do something that gets him out of this place, legally.” He strongly insisted on the word ‘legally’. “And next...I’m not sure what to do. Did the Prince tell you anything?”_

_“Yeah. You’ll go to the Queen’s quarter. Wait there. Newt ‘s going to the jail with Gally soon. But he’ll be back to the Queen’s quarter as soon as possible.”_

_Jeff nodded. When emerging from the basement, they splitted up._

_Jeff and Clint gone away from the North Palace, Minho proceeded to the next step. He needed more help, because carrying a man from the desert back to Malkata by himself, without being caught, was impossible. Flipping through bunches of faces he’d ever known, he had to find someone whose loyalty might fit this particularly wicked mission. Final decision made, he went to another quarter built within the North Palace, the one for servants and soldiers._

_Taking a rest in their room, Winston and his best pal Frypan cheerfully greeted Minho when he rushed in the room. A frown crossed Winston’s brow, for he had an acute sixth sense of forthcoming bad news. No one else was in the room but the three of them; the odds might be in their favor today. As Minho explained briefly about what they ought to do later, the two soldiers took turn to whine about how tired they felt after weeks of protecting plus patrolling the borders and dizzy trip back to Malkata Palace floating on the moody Nile and having no proper nap since they got their feet back on the solid ground this morning. But eventually having enough of wailing and complaining of getting their labour abused, which these shuckfaces often did just to mock Egypt’s Chief of Infantry every time he asked them to do anything, they happily agreed to do ‘whatever this shit is Boss just make sure we can keep our head afterwards’. Partners in crime confirmed._

_They needed to find a chest, large enough to toss the guy in and to cover him with something unsuspicious. They’d had a quite hard time to work out a convincible solution._

_Frypan, excitedly speaking out the opinion: “Sand? Plenty of sand in the desert! We can hide him under thick layer of it.”_

_Winston, grunting in disbelief: “And suffocate then proceed to kill him. Why does anyone in their right mind carry a fucking large chest full of SAND into the palace?”_

_Frypan, immediately finding alternative solution: “How ‘bout gold? We can borrow enough golden statues and stuffs to fulfill the chest. Makes it valuable. Thus the guards won’t touch it? We can even give them some to go through the gate easily.”_

_Minho, sighing deeply: “Guys I’ll have to greet you two at the gate, claim you’re charged with carrying this chest by MY order. I’ll be accused of bribery and possibly corruption for possessing that unbelievable amount of gold.”_

_Winston, giving his best attempt: “Clothes? Towels? Linen?”_

_Minho, doing the most perfect eyes rolling he could: “Why would the Chief of Infantry have to provide clean clothes like a pathetic servant?”_

_Frypan, sitting on bed lazily but brows furrowed and furrowed harder as he was thinking further about their issue, starting smacking his head into the wall behind, a habit Winston always wanted to slap out of him: “Hm hm hmmm…”_

_Minho, showing concern when seeing Frypan use his head for the wrong purpose: “Use your head properly. To think, for example. Not to smash things. You know what, don’t force yourself to think too hard. That’s not what you airhead owe to do often anyway.”_

_Frypan,_ _jolting in surprise when a vase fell off the shelf high above the wall he was torturing, managing to catch it just in time but failing to save himself from dried flowers pouring off, cascading down his head and shoulder: “Shucking hell what the fuck! Dried flowers?! Shucking women put them in our chamber every day! What for? What for? Why are they so into this smelly things?!”_

_Minho shook his head, felt utterly hopeless. But the scene stirred him a sudden idea. Girls and dried flowers. Minho stroke his chin while considering this correlation. That was it._

_Then they rushed to every corner, tried to find all kinds of dried flowers around the North Palace, without getting caught, and filled the chest with these aromatic herbs. Minho’s wide reputation of having chicks permanently swirling around him would help him get through this mission._

_Bringing along the wooden chest filled with dried flowers, Frypan, Winston lurked behind endless dunes of sand, carefully watched around, until the guards had left their wanted guy alone there and completely gone for good, then hastily approached the wrecked boy to put him in the chest. They carried the chest, with the guy hid inside, back to Malkata Palace, pretended to be innocent servants who went out to buy stuffs for their master, while Minho stayed in Malkata, played the role of a boss who was impatiently waiting for his stuffs to be delivered. His friends - actually, Minho couldn’t call Winston or Frypan ‘servants’ because they were indeed worthy of a more noble title, neither ‘apprentices’ because even though going to lots of crazy shits together during trainings and saving others’ ass during real bloody battles, Minho didn’t really teach them much except a couple of tips to survive, neither ‘soldiers’ because it sounded so...generic and just simply weird, ‘his soldiers’ there was no way Minho would ever call them that, therefore Minho just assumed they were somehow friends, fuck the military hierarchy - and so, his ‘friends’ would better enter Malkata by the West Gate, which didn’t often greet much people on a regular basis to avoid any undesired attention. Plus the two guards there always looked kinda lame and bored._

_All things clearly comprehended, they nodded and splitted out._

Now they ended up here: a reputed, honest, trustworthy physician who faked a prisoner’s death, a chief of infantry who fooled guards with a chest filled with dried flowers as a nonsense present for his non-existing girlfriends to deliver his partners in crime the real present they wanted, a prince who planned all of this, from shooting the intruder, throwing him in jail, asking said physician to fake his death to get him out of prison reasonably, having said prisoner abandoned between deserted sand dunes, waiting for said chief to bring the shank all the way back from the desert to the Queen’s quarter, waiting to see him and save him. All this mess for an unidentified intruder.

One more thing, Minho made a little mental note to himself: do not surprise people when they were doing some sort of secret affair. Or they’d end you, intentionally or accidentally, like what Clint almost did when Minho grabbed Jeff’s shoulder from the behind. He came to the jail a bit later than the physician and his young apprentice. Aware of the fact that it was the first time Jeff broke his rigid rule of _not to be involved into any political scheme_ to join this allegedly illegal political scheme, he wanted to tease the man a bit. Which he did. _What do you think you’re doing_ , he said when abruptly grabbing Jeff’s shoulder, pretending to be a guard who caught their unauthorized act, then almost having his skull crushed by Clint who immediately and forcefully swung a box right to his head.

 _What a near death experience_. If he didn’t dodge to the side at time maybe that prisoner wouldn’t be the only one who died today.

Speaking of Clint, he wasn’t here to aid Jeff as expected. Minho was about to ask but the physician had already taken one step ahead. “Clint cannot be here now. The youngster must stay at my quarter for anything that may happen when I’m gone. I’ll need a lot of help from you, and the Prince.”

The two nodded, got themselves ready. At this very moment non-cooperation was the thing he wanted the least. The boy’s wounds weren’t the biggest matter, although it still needed to be taken care of before any infection found its chance to torment his much weakened body. Apparently Jeff had done quite a good job of making a fool of the jail guards _and_ Egypt’s General, which did not sound pleasant, not at all, now he had to complete the foolish mission - dragging one back from a death that was hanging upon his feeble life.

“Minho, hand me a vase of water,” Jeff said while taking a small carafe made from copper out of the equipment box placed beside him. Minho got quite a hard time to transfer it because of its heavy weight, made water splash out when he lifted it up. The physician held it from Minho, next he turned to Newt and calmly asked, “Your Highness, I’m going to pour water into his mouth. Please lift his head up for me. Yes that’s right, a bit more,” Jeff adjusted as Newt used both hands to lift the boy’s head higher while trying to keep his body lying still on the bed. “Hold his head up for a while. I’ll need it lifted up during the whole process.”

Newt moved to sit on the bed, slowly placed his head on Newt’s laps. Jeff quickly explained, “Make sure the water doesn’t pour in his nose. It might drown him. Just keep his head steady.”

“Jeff, he feels...cold,” Newt sounded worry, ”Is he alright?”

“I can’t assure. I made him eat something that can slow down the heart.”

“The white powder?” Minho questioned at the mention of that weird substance.

“Yes. It’s extracted from sylvite stone8. With a considerable amount of sylvie powder, his heartbeat will be gradually reduced. The veins seem stopped, actually it does continue, but with feeble beat. I hoped people didn’t recognize it. Luckily they really didn’t. Thought he was dead for real. Now it must be eliminated from his body. Quick. Or else his heart will stop beating. Forever. First time I tried this on human body. So.” A beat of hesitation. ”I can’t promise anything.”

Newt listened, a strict rigidity across his shoulder, jaws tightened, eyes pleading with the gods to spare this one’s life. “Just do what you need to.”

Jeff nodded, also told Minho to pass Newt the lamp and help him clean the wound on his patient’s leg, caused by Newt’s shot. Minho needed not to be explained any further. It’d be a disdainful insult to a soldier for not knowing how do these things. He started to take care of the wound as Jeff also began to sink the carafe in the water, poured it slowly into the boy’s mouth. Newt sat still on the bed, with the unconscious boy’s head resting on his laps, used his left hand to keep the lamp in position from which it gave Minho and Jeff enough lights to proceed on what they were concentrating on. With a soaked cloth, Minho cleaned sand, dirt, and stains of dried blood from the wound to get a closer observation. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed. The arrow had been properly pulled out, so no additional cutting was necessary. The guy wouldn’t have his leg removed and could still walk properly afterwards. _Still walk properly afterwards_ , Minho repeated the thought bitterly. _Some other aren’t that lucky_ . He discreetly glanced at Newt, whose left ankle seemed swollen. It would hurt like hell later, as usual, when he tried to walk more than his left foot could handle. It’d been years since that day. _We lost our Pharaoh. You lost your father. I never got to race with you again._

Not wanting to drown himself in unnecessary pensive mood, Minho lightly shook his head and snapped back to reality. Under the faint lights, the wound from which blood was still oozing out showed itself, as a fairly deep deep on the flesh, but its position indicated that it didn’t pierce through the bone. No other similar hole at the other side of the leg, so not to worry about any severe consequence, Minho concluded. Based on the shape of the injury, rounded with no other gashes around, Minho found out that even the arrow must have had its metal head removed before being shot out. It was only a thin wooden shaft flying through air and leaving one cute hole on his right leg. Too much calculations had been planned in only one shot. Too damn much concern had been made within mere seconds.

He frowned, wondered who could be the one behind this. Newt had _very_ briefly resumed him about whatever was the thing they were involved in despite whether Minho actually got a sense of it or not. Alby was there, so was Gally the hot-tempered General, plus a raft of soldiers. Newt hadn’t told him who had taken this shot. That one got to be either extremely clumsy thus missing this easy target, or extremely good at archery for having perfectly measured the force of the flying arrow as well as the required pressure on human flesh to reduce its effect. Then he realized that wasn’t even a question worth asking. Of course. The arrow hadn’t missed its target. It’d flown to the exact intended spot instead. Only one person in the palace could have such keen eyesight.

Minho smirked at Newt, “Still a terrible archer, huh?”

“Yeah try me,” Newt stared at him menacingly. Minho raised up a corner of his mouth, made another teasing smirk, lowered his voice saying something like _oh it scares the crap out of me_ but he knew straight as hell that even with two eyes tight shut Newt could still shoot him right in the ass.

Having properly cleaned the injury, during which poor fellow didn’t have a slight reaction toward the pain, lucky him because the next thing would certainly be a torment, Minho had to stitch it up. Right the moment when the needle was close to prick through the skin, suddenly the lad, who hadn’t moved for the whole time, jolted up, started shaking as water poured out of his mouth. Newt quickly tilted him on one side while keep lifting his head up in order to prevent any fatal perturbation on the airway. All kinds of fluid spat on his hand and clothes, Newt grew a bit agitated, looked at Jeff for explanation of this sudden reaction. The physician was rather calm, if not oddly relieved. He continued to vomit but didn’t wake up. Holding his head steadily, Newt whispered something to the guy. _Come on. Hold on. Tommy. You hear me? Hold on_.

So they knew each other before. Tommy. Such strange name, Minho thought to himself. But shuck it. His was strange too. Name and appearance differed from typical Egyptians, he’d been through all sorts of mockeries, in response to which he either knocked them out, simply didn’t care, _or_ , lured these bastards’ girls whom he fucked right under the roof of their house. Chicks found his black, almond-shaped eyes irresistible. Or his muscular abs. Or his title as Chief of Infantry. An ultimately satisfying revenge he sadly had to give up because _‘bloody hell Minho just quit sleeping around with people’s wife or else you’ll shame the whole army of Egypt’_ Newt said so.

Minho knew he was an Egyptian at heart, and Egypt was his only home, since the very first moment he inhaled and exhaled the humid, sandy air of this bountiful land.

“Seems good, we’ll do it once again.” Jeff used one hand to sweep off beads of sweat that broke out of his eyebrows when the other hand pushed the boy lie flat on the bed, then began to pour water down the guy’s throat again, this time more slowly and with moderate amount of liquid at each move. Minho assumed he should go back to needles, threads to stitch shit up, at the same time observing the whole scene so that he wouldn’t accidentally gave this ragged boy more holes than needed each time he jolted up to vomit. As he weaved thin thread in and out the injury to close its mouth, he noticed that this boy got a surprisingly well-built and solid muscles on his leg. He thought this friend of Newt was a beggar, slave, or similar kinds of starving people who stole foods and got mistreated by their masters every time they happened to compromise anything. This assumption made sense at first because Newt’s hobby of sneaking away and wandering in villages would sure get him some friends of low social status.

But this particular guy. These muscles must have been built up from running, from years of training, from numerous practices of fighting, from the consistent will of being a skilled warrior. He’d just done the last move to completely seal the wound before the boy - Tommy, as called by Newt - threw up again, the pukes spattered all over his hands and clothes. Why was this guy here? Why was he been beaten so badly to end up unconscious, despite being an apparently skillful soldier? Why did he attempt to intrude the palace in such physical state, then run away without doing any harm? And above all, how did Newt and this Tommy meet each other? What happened? Why was Newt so keen on saving his life at all cost, even though it meant lying to Alby?

Speaking of whom, Minho would definitely have his brilliant, promising, potential military career cruelly terminated once Pharaoh found out about him taking part in this affair alongside Jeff - the most respected physician in the royal palace.

_Newt, what kind of disaster have you gotten yourself stuck into?_

The boy vomited, coughed, trembled. Newt held him still, avoided fluids blocking his airway. He coughed, one last time, then lied on his back. His chest rose and fell. He breathed again.

 

 

Jeff made the boy drink a small amount of charcoal powder to prevent the toxic substance to be digested by his intestines. He hadn’t woken up yet, breathes still discontinuous, though his face had grown ruddier, his body felt warmer. Newt, Minho helped get rid of other wounds: long gashes left by whips on his back, scratches on his bruised face, arms, torso; they rinsed off dirt, sand, mud. Although he looked terribly injured, it was all external wounds; no broken bones detected. Jeff pulled out from his box a slice of raw meat,  wrapped in linen cloth, then unwrapped it, tied it on the guy’s leg so his wound was underneath the meat to stop it from bleeding. He reminded Newt and Minho to change the bedsheet to another cleaner one, though it wasn’t urgent and could be delayed until tomorrow. Jeff insisted to stay here tonight, in the room right beside the one where the boy rested, watch over him for a couple of hours to make sure he’d be alright.

When asked for dinner, Jeff just shrugged and said he’d devour anything they kindly fed him. Not wanting to let Newt worsen his shitty ankle, Minho went out of the quarter to tell the servants bring them dinner. While Minho was gone, Jeff checked on Newt’s ankle. He had to agree that it’d become really shitty.

“Isn’t this bad often, I feel just fine-”

He hissed when sitting down on the couch, on which he spread out his left leg. “Hit a vase this morning. Right on this bloody ankle. So, that’s why.”

Jeff pulled a chair closer to Newt, started probing the moody ankle, now swollen, felt like burning hot, so sore he couldn’t even move around without gritting his teeth and hissing at every step. The physician had noticed it, although Newt was trying to hide the pain since the Prince came back here from the prison. He gently pressed on it, making Newt’s eyes flinch at the touch. Jeff gave him a reassuring smile. “Nothing broken. Seems fine to me. Don’t worry.”

“Should be. Or else Alby will kick my ass down a dungeon.”

Jeff laughed, though tiredness and anxiety showed on his face. Newt felt sorry for the man. He wasn’t obliged to do any of this. Eight years older than Newt, though it always felt easy talking to him. Intelligent, but not arrogant. Quiet, focused, kind. Newt liked his company, and he liked his apprentice too, the young Clint. He found it funny, how opposite the two appeared. Clint moved in the palace about two years ago. Such a talkative and curious boy, always asking questions, following his master everywhere. Sometimes Jeff got really annoyed by the youngster. He’d whined about him to Newt, when the Prince was, as usual, lying on bed, helpless, with a sore ankle, being taken care by the physician. _If the shank ‘s bugging you why did you pick him anyway_ , Newt remembered asking that. _The lad has a knack of working with herbs, crucial skill for physicians_ , Jeff sighed. _He could be in the kitchen tho_ , Newt chuckled. _Your Highness, I’m afraid that clumsy apprentice of mine may blow away the kitchen and poison the whole royal family one day_.

Jeff got up, went to the side room. Later, he came back with a soaked cloth and a bowl containing some viscous, dark green mixture. He cleaned Newt’s swollen ankle gently with the cloth, then rubbed that mixture on it. Perhaps it did hurt, it should, Newt thought. But instead he felt nothing but the movement of Jeff’s fingers as numbness had already cleared away the pain.

“It’ll be fine soon, Your Highness. Rest well. Avoid to walk too much.”

“Thanks. And,” Newt said apologetically, “I am sorry for this. All of...this.”

Jeff seemed surprised at first, as if hearing apologizes was something he wasn’t expected. He smiled the Prince’s guilt away. “No need to apologize, Your Highness. A physician’s duty and happiness are to save lives. And I did save one today. How does your ankle feel now?”

“It went numb so I hardly feel a thing.”

Newt immediately wished he hadn’t said that, for he saw a glint of regret in Jeff’s eyes. He didn’t look at Newt, seemed to be focused on the ankle, but also his look wasn’t set at anything. Maybe he was looking at the past. Maybe he was looking back to the tragedy three years ago.

“Forgive me-”

“Stop,” the Prince raised his hand and cut Jeff off on his tracks, _seriously, you and Alby need to stop blaming yourself because of me unable to walk properly_. “Without you I wouldn’t be here limping Jeff, but buried inside a bloody tomb.”

“Perhaps other physicians should’ve tried to cure you too.”

“They did. Even suggested Alby to spare me a bloody tomb in the Valley4 already. Not sure whether they even tried at all. You were the only one who was stubborn enough to save me.” _Even when your own tutor gave up. You were only a young apprentice at that time_. “Is it true that my head was ‘cracked open’?” He frowned, it was what he heard people say. He didn’t recall much things during that time. Unconscious, lying flat on bed, body temperature heated up by dreadful fever, burning hot from the inside of his fragile bones, mind tormented by chaotic memory of what had happened.

Jeff chuckled. “No, just exaggeration. But you did lose lots of blood.”

Newt didn’t remember that detail, however agonizing pain shooting up from behind his skull felt real, even when he was drowning in hazy hallucination. His hand absently raised up on its own, wanted to touch the raw scar behind his head. But he stopped. No need to check. It never went anywhere, still hidden below his thick golden hair.

He remembered falling, his father holding him in firm, assuring arms.

_It’s going to be alright, son._

He remembered them hitting the ground together. Hard. People thought they’d both died. Alby denied it. At the end Alby proved himself right, or half right. Newt made it. Their father did not. From then until the end of his existence there would be separate ages, before and after that day. Life dwelled on nonetheless. Last goodbye hanging unsaid.

“Just reasonable tho, why they advised Alby to build a tomb for me.” _They were already building one for my father. It made sense to go ahead and build another for me_. “Luckily you tried saving me instead of telling him the same thing as others did. Alby exiled them all afterwards, those who were convinced I was going to die for sure.”

“Makes sense. Considering how caring the King behaves toward you,” Jeff replied with a smile. “I’ve never seen such peculiar bond between brothers, especially royal ones. Often they just attempt to kill each other to usurp the thrones. Our Pharaoh does not only care about you, but even…” Jeff gave Newt a funny, curious look, “cherishes you in an astounding way.”

Embarrassed, Newt passed a hand across his eyes, and when he removed it Jeff was still looking at him. Newt groaned, “I’m 17 and he treats me as if I’m 5.” _Now people will think of me as a spoiled weirdo_. “I can handle things on my own!” The last sentence Newt meant to tell Alby more than Jeff. But his brother probably wouldn’t listen to him anyway.

“He’s just worried. He always cares about you a lot.”

Newt understood. He knew his brother was worried sick when Newt was out of the palace, out of the secured zone the older brother had set around him. But it was hard to stay in Malkata, in his own home, after everything. No one said a thing about it, by Alby’s strict order, still, rumours had been spreading out for years. It was hard, nearly impossible, to stop people from making up stories. But in the core of these stories lied the truth, the reason why the former Pharaoh and the young Prince were attacked. Him. Newt, and his strange blond hair, strange pale skin.

That was why Newt couldn’t stand wandering around his home like he used to do at young ages, surrounded with his loved ones - his father, the queen, his brother, Gally, bunches of kids about his ages playing with both royal princes. Now it was just Newt the reserved, discreet, lonesome boy, only seen moving between his own quarter and the Queen’s, sometimes accompanied by the Pharaoh. He acquainted himself with isolation. Alby cared about him, a lot. However one day his brother would wed a noble woman, or many women, to start a family of his own. He would no longer have enough time to share them all equally. Would Alby forget his little brother? Abandon him? Let him really handle things by himself? Perhaps he would. Perhaps he would not. Either way, Newt didn’t want to be a burden. So he soon prepared to leave. He headed out of Malkata, visited villages, markets, observed daily life of peasants, whom he would one day become. When things all settled down, Newt would be just...gone. Disappeared. For good.

He recalled the feeling of wandering along the Nile River, disguised, unknown, unrecognized, wearing no gold, saying no florid words, being no one important, being no one at all. Fishermen, whose wobbling feet trying to hold their entire body steady on the floating boats, threw down nets in the Nile, shouted to others, worked in harmonious rhythms as they pulled up the nets weighed with fishes while expressing their deepest gratitude to Hapi - God of the Nile, for blessing them with food, wealth and fertile soils. Some fishermen even waved, smiled and shouted at Newt when seeing him observe their work. On river banks, launderers gathered by groups, crushed clothes against stones to get the stains off, eyes wary of any sudden movement from the water. Crocodiles were extremely fast. Laundrymen concentrating on a stubborn loincloth stain might end their days between crocodiles’ jaws. Newt hadn’t witnessed such brutal scene by his own eyes, hopefully he’d never have to. Markets crowded with people from all places: merchants, both local and foreign, enthusiastically presented their homemade products, traded with women whose little children were tagged along but didn’t stay with their mother for long, quickly distracted by other kids’ games; some indignant men who threatened to strangle each other due to unfair dealings got separated by soldiers patrolling nearby - altogether made a noisy atmosphere of activities and human interactions, vivid and unceasing, until the sun went down, people returned to their home and Newt back to his own.

If he was lucky, Alby would be too busy to ever realize his little brother sneaked out again. Otherwise, there would be a long, solemn lecture about princes not going anywhere unguarded. Lectures of an angered king whom Newt would certainly miss a lot when he was gone.

But there was another thing he had to do for his brother before going away.

“Jeff, today Alby went off again.”

The physician listened with concern. “Do you know the reason?”

“I’m not sure. This morning he seemed fine. But until the afternoon, when we had a private talk with Gally in his quarter, he became...odd. He was just…” Newt wrestled for the right words to describe Alby’s sudden change to an aggressive behavior, “he wasn’t himself. You know how it is.”

Jeff did know about it. Assigned to take care of Alby’s deranged mind, the physician carefully supervised the Pharaoh’s manner every day. The King refused any treatment at first, assured Newt he was fine. _I’m fine. Mind your own business instead Newt_ . The way he said it itself wasn’t fine. Little brother or Newtie. Rarely by his own name. It upset the worried Prince, so he stopped begging Alby to take any treatment. But Alby started throwing objects in anger, disregard of anyone present in the same room with him at the moment, to only be stopped when Newt rushed into the room and calmed him down. Papers reporting unpleasant news violently torn off by the bad-tempered King were replaced the next day with exact copies in Newt’s refined handwriting, neatly arranged on the table. Apart from all that, Newt minded his own business and let his brother to be as _fine_ as he wanted to. Until one day, Alby entered Newt’s quarter late at night, deprived of sleep, drained of energy, Newt freaked out when the King collapsed on the floor.

Exhaustion, both physical and mental, Jeff confirmed the night Newt summoned him to the King’s quarter urgently. Since then Alby’s chamber was scented with lingering sweetness of incense, thin mist of fragrant smell from swirls of burning aromatic leaves eased Pharaoh’s sleep at night, relaxed his mind when first light of a new day emerged on the Nile. In faint light of the rising dawn, servants prepared a basin filled with water blessed by the supreme Horus, waiting to serve their Pharaoh, who soaked himself in the basin to cleanse his mind of all impurities and evil spirit. Sometimes it worked, granted the King a reasonable sense, kept him controlled throughout the day. Sometimes it didn’t, as it didn’t work today.

“It’s my fault.” _I caused such mess. I let him know I was out of the palace. Again. I spared an intruder. Despite how distrustful he is toward strangers._ “I thought his illness has been settled down.” _But it hasn’t. I was wrong_.

“That’s the long-term effect, Your Highness. He’s being through some disorder,” Jeff pointed to his own chest, then to his head, “Heart and mind, there’s a link between them. His bah5 has been damaged. Unbalance in one will cause unstable behavior in the other.”

Jeff didn’t say anything further, but Newt got it. Alby suffered. Was suffering. Tough, strong, living with a rugged heart, but he was human, after all. And human grieved when their loved ones were gone. Alby didn’t get the chance to let out his sorrow, not enough time, for he was crowned Pharaoh right afterwards. The fate of Egypt weighted on his shoulder. Newt curled up in his own isolated world and mourned their father, while Alby put it all away - tears, grief, lament - shook himself up, continued their father’s utmost mission of leading Egypt to its prosperity. He barely mentioned their father. The change took place.

“Your Highness, I’ll try as much as I can. But that’s only temporary solution. Our Pharaoh’s wrath results from the burst out emotions he’s been hiding all these years. You must find a way to get it out of him.”

 _Promise me you won’t leave the palace like that ever again, little brother._ Newt remembered Alby’s words this morning, spoken with soft tone, accompanied by a glint of fragility flickering in his eyes.

“Your brother needs you.”

The exact reason for which Newt always found himself back home, no matter how desperate he wanted to leave.

 

 

“Shucking servants! Took forever for a tiny dinner!” Yelled Minho when he returned with a jar of wine pressed onto his left arm, two cups in the right hand. He entered the library, where Newt was lying on a couch, and placed them on a stone table nearby. Newt lightly rubbed his swollen ankle, now covered with a dark green mixture that had just dried up. His eyes squinted at the touch.

Minho, who was discreetly observing Newt since he noticed his friend’s lopsided walk today, asked with a concerned look on his face. “Still sore?”

“You know how it is,” Newt replied as he tried to smile the pain away. _Has it ever stopped_? Minho didn’t say anything further. He looked around, searching for a sight of their trustworthy physician. “Where’s Jeff? Servants put the meals in the other room outside.”

“Asleep. In the side room. Thanks to you for being a snail. He’s tired and now starved too.”

“It wasn’t me who did the cooking! It was them being slow ass! Well I did wander off to find my favorite wine but it’s mostly their fault.” He hissed in retort when pouring wine from the jar in two cups. Catching the Prince’s look questioning _what’s that for_ , he plainly answered, “I think you’ll need it, no matter how this thrilling day ends.”

He gave the blond a cup, then took a loud sip from his, before flopping himself into the chair next to Newt’s couch. The blond closed his eyes while taking one big gulp. “I am indeed desperate for it.”

Minho glanced to the dark, silent side room where Jeff was presumably sleeping, and asked, “Shall we wake him up?”

“No,” Newt shook his head. “Let him take a rest. ‘s been a rough day for him. For us all.”

Outside, bit by bit losing its flaming beauty blessed by the fierce Ra6, the silvered lake was now dyed in gentle amber shades of the setting sun, as the God of Light was approaching his ritual death and preparing for the first blessing of tomorrow’s blue sky. The room, as well as two boys sitting by each other’s side, was warmly lit up by last faint orange rays clinging to the edge of a day.

 

 

“Damn. Thought that boy had already died,” Minho spoke through chewing teeth, taking a mouthful of roasted duck meat with barley bread. He’d set up a relatively nice table between them, moved the plates of meals to the library so Newt just needed to stay in his couch, wouldn’t have to go anywhere with ‘ _that shitty ankle of yours’_. The radiant, natural sunlight was now replaced with burning torches, some hung on the wall, some held in the palm of Anubis statues placed in the room corners.

Newt slightly adjusted his position into a more comfortable one, let loose the nerves and muscles after a seemingly endless afternoon. He tore up a stuffed pigeon, a little bit over-grilled, combined the oily meat with well cooked olives. It tasted bland in his mouth, even though he should be hungry now for having had almost nothing in his stomach since the morning, only some muffled papyrus tubers. Perhaps his mind was wandering somewhere else, totally forgetting the savour of fine food he fed himself. Contrary to an unimpressed Newt, Minho devoured the meals, like a lion starved for weeks. Reasonable, Newt thought. The infantry made up the majority of Egypt’s army, also beared the greatest lost in battles, thus the foot soldiers faced trainings more physically stressful and psychologically demanding than charioteers, archers or spearmen. Leading it was definitely a hard job, required the chief to be as strong as a bull, sturdy and fearless. Explained why Minho could shove that much food in his bottomless stomach, now less than a third of the meals remained on the table. If Newt was him, it’d take him the entire next day to digest all of it.

“Should be alright by now. You sure Winston and Frypan won’t leak it out?”

“Sure as hell. Believe in my men Newt,” Minho answered, hand reaching to grab the last boiled egg in a plate near the edge of the table, which the Prince believed was the very last thing his friend could stuff down his stomach before it exploded.

“Even when they’re stoned out?” Newt raised his eyebrow at a confident look-like Minho.

“Even when they’re stoned out.” His friend replied as he slowly bit the soft-boiled egg, skillfully swallowed the runny yolk, moaned happily when it slid down his throat. Then he threw the rest of it into his mouth and chewed it. Newt had already finished the dinner for a while, now turned to the basket of dates as a light dessert. Surprisingly, Minho was still able to continue eating as they shared the crunchy dates. His capacity of digestion was way far beyond Newt’s knowledge.

“If you vomit in my library tonight I swear I’ll slay your arse.” Responding to Newt’s threatening was a sly smirk. “Right, keep smirking and try me. By the way, how was your trip to the South? Buhen Fort stands still?”

With a glass of wine in one hand, Minho flinched his face as if he was trying to find a description that suited best for the recent trip. “Terrific” and “Not recommended” were his best attempt.

“Great, now we’re all bloody inspired. Thanks to a spoiled leader.” Newt rolled his eyes. “How ‘bout some more details jerk?”

“I’ve been called with worse names. Some even called me ‘Mean Hoe’. That’s actually a good one tho. But anyway, try richer vocabulary than just ‘jerk’. Damn.” He gulped down the rest of the drink in one go and then poured another casually. ”Here’s my journey. Insane Nubians nomadic tribes keen on bugging our northern border. Frustrated soldiers had their card games often interrupted. Blood. Screams. Kill at sight. Fucking boiling sun and fucking heat.”

Newt made a fake-impressed face. “That’s a pretty succinct summary. Can’t believe you’re so well cultured.”

Minho threw out an immediate retort, “Neither can I believe that Egypt’s royal, elegant and thoughtful prince is such a brat.”

“I’ll take that as a dignified compliment. And also,” Newt said as he raised his own glass of wine at Minho, “I’m glad the shucking jerk has safely returned.”

“So am I to see you haven’t had your ass killed yet. Seriously, at least the Nubian governments gotta do something about this. Cannot just let thugs do whatever they want at _our_ border! I guess their queen regent isn’t doing a very good job there. Shitty, indeed.”

Newt’s face flinched as he disagreed with an irritated Minho. He felt slightly frustrated every time his friend got drunk and started behaving in an unrespectful way.

“Come on Minho. Regency isn’t easy. The lady wouldn’t have to do it if their former king didn’t pass away so soon. Plus she has to take care of her son, that poor sick boy.”

“Sick or not, he’s a real mama’s boy. Blames on shitty health to avoid a king’s responsibilities. Shucking coward.”

Rumours had it that the future heir of Nubia was a weak fellow, physically and mentally. The southern kingdom had long been conquered by Egypt’s previous sovereigns and since then always behaved in a decent manner of a defeated colony toward the land of Pharaohs, albeit not totally obedient. To be frankly said, Nubia’s former king was killed during a battle against Egyptian army led by Egypt’s former Pharaoh, Alby and Newt’s father. It made sense if Nubian envoys didn’t seem quite pleased each time they visited Egypt with a great amount of _obligatory_ annual offerings. He hadn’t met the next heir of Nubia yet, that lad hadn’t paid Egypt any visit due to his feeble body, so his name and face still remained unknown to Newt. Maybe it was Arol, Aryl or something similar. But now he had to create some kinds of diversions, because Minho was on the verge of losing his temper about Nubian queen regent’s failure regarding her country once again.

“So, how were the battles? Not too harsh?”

Another thing Minho loved to talk about when stoned was how excellent he performed on battlefields. “The battles there were so lame sometimes I didn’t even bother to bring a sword with me. Some sort of epidemic had already weakened most of the Nubians. We had to fight our ass off countless times tho, but all ended within a blink of eyes. As if we were fighting against gangs of soulless walking bodies,” Minho ranted as he took another sip of his wine, “damn. I miss this shucking wine. Damn.”

More _polite_ words were added as Minho kept on intensely enjoying his delicious wine. Newt shook his head at the sight. _I’ll have to ban you from wine before it spoil your right mind_. But then he frowned and gave Minho a perturbed look. “An epidemic, you said?”

“Yeah. Dunno how are things within Nubia’s cities. But if even nomadic robbers or exiled rebels get it, then things must be shucking bad out there. Oh come on Newt quit that concerned-mother look. I feel as strong as a wild bull.” Minho softened his tone a bit when he saw Newt’s worry only grow stronger. ”I’m fine, Newt. Not a single sign of life threatened or whatsoever related to that epidemic, see? I checked with the physicians twice per day since I’d set foot on Buhen Fort7.”

“Good that. I’d be devastated if something happened to this shucked shank, who’s showing me not a single sign of _respect_ since we’ve met.”

“Yeah. Have to make sure my persistent longevity for that noble purpose. Bet you couldn’t survive a day without my insult.” Then they continued to drink and insult each other’s personality and life choices - typical things they’d been doing for years since the very first moment when 12-year-old Minho bumped into the young Prince during a training session. Their conversation was, at some moments, interrupted by Minho who burped, loudly, each time he lightly tapped his belly with satisfaction. Staying in the library with a vast opened space ahead, they were directly exposed to the cool winds of crisp night, each blow sent Newt shiver and got his hackles all up. He glanced at Minho and saw that the tipsy boy, who had stopped chattering, was closing his eyes, seemed to enjoy the night’s gentle caresses. He murmured something under his breath. Newt was about to wake the poor shank up to get him a decent spot to sleep then Minho suddenly tilted on one side and would’ve fallen off the chair if Newt didn’t grasped him right the moment gravity took control over the drunk ass. He cursed when hitting the edge of the table between them when reaching out to catch Minho, pulling his friend back in the chair. “Jerk! You asleep?!”

“W-what? No I’m not-” He immediately sat upright, bleary eyes wide opened as they quickly gained back wariness. His tan face now turned all red due to either the wine or embarrassment. Rubbing his face with both hands, he conceded, “...Maybe a bit I guess.”

Newt pursed his lips and did the ‘chk chk’ sound that Minho definitely detested, “Oh baby boy, don’t let the wine knock you out like that.”

Said ‘baby boy’ rolled his eyes and swung two hands in the air. “Fine. Keep mocking. I just came back from a dreadful battle, didn’t have any shucking rest, willing to engage in a nuts mission nonetheless.”

“Mh hm...” was Newt’s only answer. Minho groaned in disbelief, “I’ll take that as a thank. You’re very welcome.” He used one hand to scratch his head while the other raised the glass up to his mouth. Disappointed by the empty glass, he intended to refill it but was stopped by the blond’s judging look. Rubbing his forehead with the fingertips, Minho tried to hide the weariness, which was showing clearly on his face, and let out a sigh. He turned to Newt when he heard his friend’s call ‘Hey shuckface’, blurted out something assumed to be a witty comeback but stopped in the middle of it, because the Prince was offering him his own glass, half-full with the remaining wine.

“Thanks, really.” A smile, apologetical one. “My life will be a bloody mess without your help.”

“Finally a thank,” Minho grunted as he took the glass, although his face seemed more relaxed. Then he waited for something, which Newt took as a bad sign. Indeed it was, because Minho wouldn’t cease his unbearable stare at him while slurping the drink noisily. With two crossing arms on his chest and one raised eyebrow, Newt stared back, waited, felt a sudden urge to wipe off that inquisitive expression on the other’s reddened face. Eventually having enough of the weird ass staring competition, the blond felt like yelling, which he almost did if Minho hadn’t spoken up first.

“So, one,” he raised up one finger, “why didn’t you just tell the whole shucking story to your brother?”

 _One and there will be two and certainly three, four, five_. He sighed, mentally. “I can’t. Not yet. Plus that guy climbed up a bloody statue of Anubis.” Minho choked on his own for laughing. “Fortunately Alby didn’t order to kill him right away.”

“Now, two,” he added another finger, “one hell of a mess, for that particular shuckface. Why?”

It made him hesitated, unsure of what, or how, to respond. Lips pursed, fingers nervously tapping on the table surface, he avoided Minho’s curious look. Newt opened his mouth, wanted to say something, but then closed it, awkwardly repeated that movement several times, for he didn’t know how to form a proper explanation. Across the table, Minho was waiting, impatiently. His mind racing in all directions, desperately searching for the right words. He answered, slowly, every word carefully weighed before it was delivered.

“It’s a life worth saving.”

“A fellow you met outside the palace?” _Right guess. But more than that. More than just an ordinary fellow living an ordinary life outside the palace_.

“A friend without whom I wouldn’t still be here.”

Minho choked on his drink, again, looking bewildered. “What?” Swiping away drops of wine stained on his lips and chin, he asked for confirmation, as if he believed the wine had tricked his own hearing and reasoning.

“That boy,” _but you have a name, Tommy, you’re not just that or this boy_ , he felt a lump in his throat, somewhere in his low voice there was a tone of guilt twisted with confusing emotions he himself couldn’t understand, “gave me the chance, to run away.” _Idiot. Got yourself nearly beaten to death, to save me. Bloody idiot. And I fucking dumped you behind_.

Minho kept gazing at Newt, had the look of someone who just got punched in the face. Newt let him have the time he needed to put things together. Twilight’s dancing breezes cooled off the air, made way for a tender night which was slowly falling down and scattering tiny flickering sparkles all over the still lake in front of his serene shelter. Starry sky above hugging shimmering water below. A night as cold, tranquil, full of secrets as all the other nights, as the one where Newt got back to the Palace, panting, trembling, slumped in his bed, unable to sleep, thinking about what had happened, about a vile chase in which he was a victim, about a friend he’d just had and lost.

_“Go that way. Don’t turn back.”_

_“What? Tommy, you don’t go?”_

_“Just go, Newt. Quick. They’ll catch us soon. I’ll be alright. Worry not. I’ll be fine.”_

_“Tommy-”_

_“Don’t worry. We’ll see each other again.”_

_With one last reassuring smile, Thomas pushed him down the wall that were separating them. Newt fell to the rocky ground out of the residence, while Thomas was still stuck inside. A sudden moment of shock from lost balance of gravity passed, Newt hastily shook himself up, propped his back against the rough wall behind, at the other side of which he heard loud footsteps approaching alongside indistinct shoutings. But they all turned to another direction, as if someone lured them away, until all noises faded, far away from where he was. Gathering the last remnant of strength, Newt staggered all the way back to Malkata._

Minho lightly moved in his chair, sighed as his broad shoulder rose and fell. “So, ready for the last question?”

 

 

Drunk and mostly drained out of energy after a long trip back from the South border, Minho fell asleep in the middle of Newt’s story countless times. The Prince had to pay close attention to each movement of the sleepy shank the whole time; slow nods meant he was listening, nods which were further stooped downward meant he dozed off and would have an impressive black bruise on his forehead in the morning. After a dozen futile attempts of waking him up, Newt decided to let his friend take the rest he needed. On the way of leading Minho to another couch, he grunted in frustration at one time when Minho, who was leaning on Newt, fantasized about caressing some bloody booty in his dream thus touching Egypt’s Prince in reality. _No more wine from now on shucking_ _shank_. Minho started snoring right the moment he was dropped on the couch. Newt casted a quick glance into the side room where Jeff was sleeping soundly. He intended to go in the other side room where the boy was hidden, but he stopped in his tracks. Instead, Newt went back to the couch, quietly drank the rest of the remaining wine then went to sleep.

_Don’t worry. We’ll see each other again._

They did. In an extremely unexpected way.

 

 

 _When it all ends, come back to me_.

The words swirled in his mind, like a haunting melody that kept replaying over and over again, like an unfinished lullaby that left him sleepless nights. Tender blue eyes looking into the depth of his soul while fingers lightly caressing all over his face made him shiver.

_We’ll leave all of this behind._

Then suddenly he was trapped within feverish flames. A smirk looming through ablaze fire. He reached out. The ground crumbled beneath unsteady feet as darkness gulped down everything he ever held dear. In a brief moment he wished the world would simply stop moving, so that he could once again embrace the warmth of their goodbye kiss which slowly faded away from his memories.

 _And be together until the end of time_.

He screamed.

All at once air rushed in and overflew his lungs. Dreaded, he abruptly sat up while both hands unconsciously swung in air as if he was defending himself from something. He panted. His wide opened eyes dashed around. He was in a small chamber. Not too dark but not much light either. Someone was with him - a man wearing a plain white tunic, saying things he couldn’t understand. The man was standing close with a hand reaching out to him. Like a scared and wounded animal, he jolted backward. His back hit the hard wall behind. He cried out as stinging pain came from every part of his body. The man stopped, carefully reeled back. The man spoke again, but not to him. Instead, his head slightly turned to one side as he continued calling out something. It frightened him even more when out of the blue two other men hastily walked in.

Paralyzed and panicked, wounded and surrounded by strangers. People were speaking languages he couldn’t understand. The man whom he saw first was now rapidly talking to two other guys, whose body appeared clearly opposite one to the other - one slim and one muscular. _Side effects._ He caught few words, yet couldn’t get a glimpse of its meaning. _To his head. Maybe_. The white-tunic man kept talking. The other two glanced at him eventually. He felt like a trapped animal. _Don’t know how long will it last_. He saw fleeting memory of people beating him, breaking him into pieces, of burning pain from the whips lashing up and down, over and over. The slim guy was leaving the group to approach him. He flinched backward simultaneously in blind panic. No. Don’t. Please. He was already in pain. Was it going to happen again? Were they going to do it again?

The slim guy didn’t get on the bed nor do him any harm, but kneeled down and looked up at him. A guy around his own age. Perhaps, perhaps. Sunbeams permeated into the room through a small window. Soft lights tenderly rested on the boy’s golden hair, made half of his face lit up while the other half sunk in shadow. The boy kept looking at him. He was saying something, his lips formed a constant movements. He was repeating a word. A familiar sound. Couldn’t grasp its meaning. Dizziness twisted his head and disturbed his reasoning. Felt like having been violently pulled back from the death. He closed his swollen eyes, raised scratched hands to cover his face. He quivered, trying to grip a sense of reality.

_Who am I? Who am I? Who are they? It hurts everywhere. Why am I here? Why can’t I recall anything? It hurts. It hurts to think, to breathe, to simply be alive._

He was digging up every corner within his distorted head, searching for a piece of memory of his long lost identity. Then suddenly it hit him. A little chunk of his torn off life. That sound. He remembered that sound. He opened his eyes.

The blond boy was still looking at him. Worried. Concerned. Hopeful. He made that sound, again.

 _Tommy_.

Tommy. Tommy. Thomas. Thomas. _My name. My name_. Only one person called him that way. Only one person he’d ever met gave him that name. Tommy. Tommy. He slowly opened his mouth in reply.

“...Newt?”

Newt smiled. He looked magnificent under the touch of glowing sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Malkata Palace: royal palace of Egypt, built by Amenhotep III during the New Kingdom period.
> 
> [2] Cubit: ancient measurement unit in Egypt, equals to the length from the elbow to the tips of the fingers.
> 
> [3] A week in Ancient Egypt lasted for 10 days. So apparently 3 weeks at that time was as long as 1 month nowadays.
> 
> [4] Valley: Valley of the King, where Pharaohs and their family lied and rested. During the New Empire, ancient Egyptians didn’t build pyramids anymore, because huge pyramids located in the desert were a clear target for robbers.
> 
> [5] Bah: Ancient Egyptians believe one’s life was controlled by two kinds of spirits: bah, which was the exact copy of oneself, could eat, drink, sleep, and eventually visited life even when the body perished, and bah, the soul, which made one’s thinking and characteristics.
> 
> [6] Ra: the God of the Sun, commonly known as the greatest of all the Egyptian gods and goddesses.
> 
> [7] Buhen Fort: a fort located on the utmost South of Egypt, controlling the border between Egypt and Nubia. In fact, Ramesses II conquered Nubia and claimed a part of their land. Abu Simbel was built on Nubia’s territory. Buhen Fort located farther to the South of Abu Simbel (show the map).
> 
> [8] Overdose of potassium causes hyperkalemia, an elevated concentration of electrolyte potassium (K+) in the blood, which can cause malaise, palpitation and muscles weakness. Removing the excess potassium is often done by simulating urine production or dialysis. Extreme hyperkalemia risk to disturb blood circulation, thus lead to fatal abnormal heart rhythms. KCl (potassium chloride) is also used for cardiac arrest. The substance can be extracted from sylvite.


	4. Awaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleeping beauty finally woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the most irresponsible author ever who tries to procrastinate at her best. Thank you all for supporting my story (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ ~~~

 

“Easy there,” Newt sat down next to the agitated boy, trying to calm him down. “You’re safe here. With us. Nothing to worry about.”

“Us” involved Minho, who propped himself against the wall, wariness unhidden from his face. Jeff stood still like a statue, making no noticeable move, two crossed arms placed on his chest. Their gaze was firmly fixed on the poor guy, who had waken up a couple of minutes ago without any clue about his current whereabouts. Thomas didn’t seem to be convinced by Newt’s assurance. Of course he wouldn’t. Severely injured, snapped back to consciousness inside a dark room surrounded by strangers, no one should feel safe in such situation. Sitting on the bed, he curled into a fetal position, curved back leaning against the wall behind, two arms tightly wrapping around his knees. His eyes darted around the narrow place, his mind was opening up for all sorts of unexpected directions, trying to figure out what had happened. Or what was happening.

Thomas didn’t look at any of them, keeping his eyes down the crumpled sheet beneath him. Jeff remained quiet. Perhaps a casual introduction might free them from this expectedly uncomfortable reunion.

“Hey, Tommy.”

Bouts of guilt seized Newt when Thomas’ eyes immediately raised up to meet his own, seeking for- Newt didn’t know, what was he seeking for? Hiding place? Assurance? An answer? He didn’t know how he should feel about it, about Thomas’ hollow cheeks, about indistinct movements of the parched lips each time he drew out a trembling breath, about the visible fear gleaming in his brown eyes, or about the way Thomas looked at him, perplexed, vulnerable, as if he was clinging to that call, _“Hey, Tommy”_ , like his sole lifeline.

Newt put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, making him jolt up a bit at the movement, and gave a comforting smile.

“That shank over there,” Newt spoke to him sympathetically, his index finger pointed at Minho while Thomas’ gaze followed his movement, “is Minho. My friend. An asshole. But you can trust him.”

Minho nodded at them, a corner of his mouth slightly lifted up as a welcoming expression.

“And this is Jeff, who‘s been taking care of you. Another friend of mine.”

A handwave from Jeff, his gesture much friendlier than Minho’s. He spoke in a cheerful voice, “Yesterday you were a real mess, boy. Really thought we’d lost you. Welcome back.”

Thomas seemed to have gained better control over himself, as he loosened his arms wrapping around the bent up knees, although the rigid tension wasn’t cleared away from his face. Altogether they waited for the next development of this conversation, none attempted to initiate any discussion on their own. So the introduction didn’t work quite as effective as he’d expected.

Newt cleared his throat and discreetly looked at Minho and Jeff. They nodded, then left the room. With Minho and Jeff gone, Newt let out a sigh and turned back to Thomas, who was studying his face attentively, which made Newt feel somewhat uneasy.

“Tommy? You’re alright?”

“You are…” Thomas drew out his voice, fingers swirling around in the air as he struggled to pick the right words. He didn’t answer the question, instead his gaze shifted from Newt’s hair to face, from the trail of black eyeliner at the corner of Newt’s eyes to the pair of ankh[] earrings hanging on his earlobes, from broad collar necklace[] ornamented with turquoise and jasper stretching over his chest to gold bracelets on his wrists.

“Different. I remember you...different. Like...”

His sentence was once again uncompleted.

“Less fancy?” New suggested.

He nodded reluctantly, showing great confusion. Newt didn’t blame him, though it made him seriously wonder of how much clothing coupled with jewelry could transform one’s appearance. Next to him, Thomas kept a distance between them, eventually casted a glance to his side but immediately diverted it away whenever Newt happened to catch his curious look.

Thomas was shrinking into himself. He must have realised that Newt, who he used to think was just like him, wanderer, down-and-out, struggling to feed himself day by day, actually belonged to a higher social class, whose power was influential enough to crash people of Thomas’ own rank. Newt thought to himself ironically, Thomas would have fainted and fallen into unconsciousness again once he knew that his companion, with whom he hung out all day and together sneaked into the residence of Deir-el-Medina village’s leader, was the prince of Egypt.

But Newt wanted to keep this _little_ secret away from his friend by now. Just let things be the way they were. To Thomas’ surprise, he took off the collar necklace, the bracelets, the pair of earrings, threw them all down the floor, cleaned away the contoured kohl[] eyeliner with his fingers. Instead of completely wiping the kohl off, he swept it down below the cheeks, leaving dark-colored smudge over his face.

The prince, now very much unlike him few minutes ago, turned to Thomas and asked, “Better now?” - to which the dazed boy smiled back. _Yeah_ , Newt heard him mumble.

“So, you like me looking this way or-” he gestured at the mess of accessories lying on the ground, “the other way round?”

It was probably not a decent question to ask, because Thomas sat mute for minutes - Newt didn’t exactly acknowledge of how many time had passed, for he felt himself flushing as embarrassment stir him up. Fortunately, the dark stains of kohl had already covered his cheeks, which he supposed had gotten reddened by now, so it would not hurt his pride like a pain in the ass.

“Don’t bother.” Finally, he said with a wave of hand, implying that both of them should just forget about it. But Thomas, as he knew, would always try to answer his questions, even when he told him not to, _especially_ when Newt told him not to.

“You look good. Either way.”

That’s why he sometimes preferred Tommy not to give answers, to which Newt had no idea how to react. Should I thank? Should I just nod? Or should I smack him on the head because of that stupid smile on his face right now?

“Kinda scary with that eyeliner tho.” Thomas conceded, while his fingers were drawing circle around his own eyes as illustration.

“That’s high fashion, you uncultured shuckface.” Newt exclaimed, pretended to be severely offended by that comment, making them both laugh along. Feeling at ease, Thomas let loose of his nerve, stretched up his legs but then he let out a sudden cry and flinched at the pain that only came clear in his mind until now, when sensation gradually came clear to him. Reaching down, he found a part of his calf swathed in bandages with faint drops of blood stained on the outside. Confusion flooded back as Thomas tried to put pieces of interrupted events together. _What is this?_ he didn’t say it out loud, afraid that his blurry mind was playing trick on him by a short-term memory lost. Sitting next to him, Newt swallowed before admitting to be the author of that wound.

“That was me,” he hastily explained before Thomas once again shifted away from him because of this phenomenal betrayal, “didn’t have any other choice.”

Now his jaws dropped down, leaving a O shape on his mouth. It took him a while until he managed to establish a link between his newly granted wound and the fact that he was saved by the same person who blessed him with this injury. Thomas’ eyes flickered with sharp realization. Thomas was about to say something, like he wanted to exclaim, to his vexation, as his lips formed into a small, tight circle, the word “Why” already on the edge of his tongue, but then he closed his mouth tight shut.

Newt was still patiently waiting, for the next moment when Thomas, to his shame, asked, “Because I intruded your house?”

 _House_ , so he hadn’t known that this place was, indeed, Newt’s house, and at the same time the royal palace. That made sense of why on earth would he lurk inside a room where Pharaoh and the Prince were heading to for a copious lunch, for which Gally would gladly accuse him of assault scheme aimed at royal family. Because he had no idea that he was inside the royal palace.

“Yes. Mostly because you also climbed up a statue of Anubis. I had to shoot you down, or others would do, with much more violence.”

Startled, but the bewilderment quickly grew to an honest repentance, Thomas replied with a nervous grin, “Yeah. I guess...I did that. Did I really do that?”

At the last question, he was genuinely dazed, either his memory was shrouded in mists thus made him unable to retain all past events, or the ignorant shank simply wasn’t aware of that blasphemous act and its consequences - Newt didn’t know which one was worse.

“Listen. Don’t do it _ever_ again,” he severely insisted. Facing Newt’s stern glare, he sunk down in his spot like a child being reprimanded for having disobeyed the rules, although this view made the Prince wanted to burst out in laughter and wave it all away, because this Thomas next to him, fragile, ashamed, sheepish, was completely different to the one he’d met on the Nile riverbank two days ago, a young boy who wore a shining smile on his sweaty face, who wouldn’t cease to question things and try to answer them himself, who gave his best to amuse people around him, and the worst part, who always seemed like he was up to something, with a sharp wit and cunning mind of his own.

The truth was they barely knew each other. A day with the two of them ambling alongside Deir-el-Medina village, with casual talk and jokes Newt had truly enjoyed, didn’t make up a solid base by which Newt could claim to understand Thomas, even just one full part of him. But there were three things he knew for sure about this idiotic friend of his: firstly, his curiosity, coupled with an acute reasoning, was extraordinary, secondly, it made Thomas the kind of people who would certainly get themselves into bloody troubles, and one last point, his life was a life worth saving. So they ended up here.

Since the moment Newt lumbered back home safely, while Tommy did not, never had he felt so desperately helpless. He’d lost count of how many times he got to his feet, hauled himself out of the doorway and went to Alby’s quarter, wanting to beg his brother to send soldiers after Thomas. But he stopped himself every time his trembling legs stepped close the the door of his own quarter, and returned back to bed, because royal army rushing into a village leader’s house in the middle of the night, without any obvious evidence about anything, would doubtlessly become a scandalous affair people would be thrilled to gossip about, even in decades after Alby’s reign. His brother was right, Deir-el-Medina wasn’t a simple village to mess with.

So he found himself restless, crashing onto bed all over again, perplexed head filled with uninvited imagination about what could have happened and was happening to Thomas. He tried to steer them away, but how in this world did he have the right to exchange Tommy’s life for a short serenity of his own soul?

It was one of the longest nights, with horrifying anticipation tormenting his mind.

Life itself was a serie of wicked events, but even in darkest days, there was a faint ray of hope. Thomas was beaten, badly. The sight of his back covered with crossed gashes and dark marks of dried blood and bruised skin on parts that used to be bright eyes wouldn’t stop bouncing in his mind. But he was alive. He was here, and he was safe.

Though he wasn’t totally safe, because the cruelty of life could fling all the way back in the shape of Gally the stroppy General. Leading Egypt’s entire army was a high social position, still below that of a royal member though, and fortunately Newt just happened to be a _prince_ , after all. Dealing with Gally in some aspect was less intricate than with Alby. He wished to have a few points clear: how his friend had managed to escape, and above all, how in the bloody hell he had chosen the palace as a shelter. However, it could wait. He didn’t want to bother Tommy with those unpleasant questions by now.

He resumed their conversation, while Thomas was fiddling with some straws prickling through the tattered, dirty bed sheet, not knowing what else to say until Newt gave him a sign to continue their talk.

“Stay here. Rest well. Tell me, or Minho, or Jeff, if there’s anything you need. Don’t let anyone else see you but the three of us. Got that? And don’t leave the room. It’ll be boring but don’t go any bloody where until you’re healed, alright? I’ll be in the large room right outside.”

Thomas listened to every word. The Prince hoped this time his foggy brain would hunker down and actually work to remember it. He couldn’t bear messing things all up and down to save his arse once more. Thomas opened his mouth, about to say something, but then he seemed taken aback, slightly blushed, which made Newt wanted to laugh, again, because this shuckface, whom he remembered being annoyingly clever, was behaving as if he was a girl in love.

“Just spit it out, idiot.”

Right when Newt had just finished his sentence, Thomas’ stomach emitted a loud, crystal-clear gurgling noise as he immediately covered his belly with both hands, if it could turn the volume down somehow. He admitted awkwardly, “Sorry, just… I’m hungry.”

“Bloody idiot,” Newt’s smile sent a wave of assurance over his tense shoulder, “stay here. I’ll fetch you some food. Try not to steal again, alright?”

The last sentence was accompanied with a soft chuckle from the blond, before he picked up all his abandoned accessories lying on the ground and left the room.

 

 

“Shucking hell did you just get robbed Newt?! What’s _that_ on your face? And where are all the shining blinking jewellery?!” exclaimed Minho, who had been waiting in the library and intended to welcome the Prince back with a yawn, which was only halfway done before it turned to a yell when Newt appeared from the doorway of the side room. Minho received a deadly glare without any explanation tagged along. Newt dropped all the “shining blinking jewellery” on a table, making tinkling sounds as the metal stroke together.

“Where’s Jeff?” Newt asked when starting to put the accessories back on.

“Back to his quarter. Worried that the young Clint has blown up the whole place when he was gone. Will come back here eventually. That’s all he said.”

“And you, shuckface,” he said at the soldier who was sprawling lazily on the couch, “having nowhere to go?”

To which Minho sighed dramatically, pretended to shed tears and wipe these non-existing teardrops away from his cheek. “You’re chasing me away, Your Highness? Have you not liked me anymore?”

“Yes just blow away from my sight, annoying shank. Shoo.” Newt waved his hand carelessly at him like he was shooing a stray cat. Minho muttered something under his breath, perhaps some gracious, favorite curses of his own, then actually stood up, to Newt’s surprise, and made a couple of scretching moves.

“Gotta go. Before your brother castigates me for disrespect because of delayed report. May dismiss me from the army as well. I wonder _who_ has made me late at it.”

“Dunno,” said the Prince, who was trying to completely clean away the dark stains of kohl smudging all over his face, curved his lips upwards, two shoulders rose and fell, altogether formed a gesture of responsibility denial. “A shucked friend of yours? Do I know him?”

“I trusted the wrong person. I’ll head straight to hell because of this.”

“Postpone your meeting with Ammit[]. The one with Alby has higher priority. He must’ve been waiting for you since yesterday. Give him a flawless report, soldier.”

“Your order is my law, Your Highness,” Minho solemnly placed his left arm across his chest, bowed down to the Prince with a humorously serious look on his face. A gesture to which Newt laughed at. Out of all people, this cocky leader’s courtesy toward him made the Prince feel bloody wrong and hella weird. No fake politeness from the start, none till the very end. It worked for them two.

Newt walked with him to the entrance door of the Queen’s quarter, although Minho had insistently refused, “If your ankle falls off don’t you dare blame it on me!”

“It’s strong enough to kick you in the ass. I’d love to make sure you’re totally out of here.”

“Want nothing more than that. How’s our fellow?”

“Fine, I guess. I’m gonna get him some food. Before he goes berserk and does stupid thing again. Stealing Pharaoh’s meals for example.”

“He’d better not be that much of a jacked ass.” Minho’s sedate pace was then abruptly cut off as he saw under his foot. Bending down to pick up a small piece of crumpled paper, he casted a quick peek at it before crushing it in his palm, plainly answered Newt’s curious look, “Nothing. Just rubbish.”

Arriving to the doorway, Minho spoke to Newt with a subtle tone of carefully disguised concern in his voice, “Take good care of that shank and of yourself too. Got it?”

The Prince nodded. Minho gave him a pat on the shoulder then left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Ankh: symbol of life, worshiped in Ancient Egypt.  
> [2] Collar necklace (called “wesekh”): common jewelry worn by noble classes, especially by Pharaoh himself and often depicted as deities’ clothing.  
> [3] Kohl: ancient eye cosmetic, purpose of which is similar to mascara. Ancient Egyptians used it as eyeliner to contour their eyelids, which beautified them and protected them from the sun.  
> [4] Ammit: a god living in hell, devoured the impure heart of those condemned as sinful.


	5. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt and Thomas shared a meal together, a peaceful moment after the last few days of chaos. An urgent call from Pharaoh parted them away.
> 
> Before leaving the Queen’s quarter, Minho found a little letter scroll on the floor, but quickly hid it away from Newt’s look. Alone, he confronted its author.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've just got all done with the final exams, and need something gay to cheer up my gloomy mood. MY BOYS. The Death Cure will be released within few weeks!!! *screams* I AM TOTALLY UNPREPARED FOR IT.
> 
> Anyway, thanks a lot for all your support. I am not sure whether I can finish the story. At this point, I've only accomplished like...10% of the plot. I will try as much as I can <3 <3 <3

Following the Prince’s order, a servant came to the Queen’s quarter with food and drink. It wasn’t much of a fancy meal like the one he and Minho had last night, where Minho couldn’t stop shoving food down his boundless stomach. Newt had with him a few soft boiled eggs, two loaves of wheat bread, several pieces of roasted pigeons leftover from last night meals - although the servant had wanted to bring him fresh dishes for breakfast, Newt refused her kind intention, stating that he needed something light to start the day, leftover should do good too, as long as it hadn’t yet spoiled. She hesitated, afraid that food left over night could somewhat be bad for health, especially for  _ royal _ family’s health, so she had warmed the dishes up before delivering them.

He was thinking about getting some beer or wine, but Thomas’ fragile state now might not handle very well the drinks. Finally, he contented himself with mostly water, and some milk - it could help to recover faster.

He went to the side room to see Thomas curling in bed (if that pile of straws was worthy enough to be called ‘bed’), seemingly asleep again. Newt’s return with the faint smell of roasted pigeons and freshly baked breads woke his sense. Thomas’ eyes opened and his head raised up slowly. He sat up quickly but the sudden movement upset the various wounds on his already ragged body, causing sharp pain. He let out a quiet hiss as he tried to move, which made him look like  a clumsy puppet.

“Don’t freak out, it’s just me. And food.” Newt teasingly told him, as he sat on the ground near Thomas, posing plates and dishes between them. Thomas’ eyes, if he wasn’t exaggerating, was  _ glowing _ with happiness at the sight, like he was given gold or jewels instead of bread, eggs and meat.

“Shall we?” Newt smiled at him and together they shared the humble feast.

If there was an eating contest where Thomas and Minho took part in, Newt wasn’t sure on who he would place a bet. These two hadn’t talked much, but he was sure they would quickly find a common interest. If ever they all sat together for a meal, Newt would have to tell the kitchen servants in priori to triple, or quadruple, the portions, otherwise Thomas and Minho might probably pick a fight with each other to claim equality and justice for their bottomless stomach. He found the vision amusing. His soft chuckle interrupted Thomas, making him slow down a bit as he picked up food with much more self-restraint.

“I wasn’t laughing at you, idiot.”

Thomas’ face reddened up with embarrassment. He coughed several times, either it was a futile attempt to create diversion from the subject, or he really got something stuck in the throat - which wasn’t surprising, judged by the way he devoured food as if there was no tomorrow. 

“Probably the best meal I’ve ever had.” Thomas finally managed to speak in a decent manner.

_ Yeah because it’s for royal members _ , he wondered whether to inform Thomas about it. Surely, he’d get him out of here soon, once Thomas got strong enough to take good care of himself, so telling him that he was in the royal palace might not be necessary. The problem that was bugging him was that he didn’t yet know how long it’d take to have his friend sufficiently recovered. Days? Weeks? A month? Only gods knew what could possibly happen in the meantime, for instance, Thomas got bored of lying still all day and started to make use of his natural-born talent of causing troubles to, indeed, cause troubles, in the  _ palace _ .  _ Again _ . Newt wavered over to tell or not to tell. He was afraid such revelation would ruin what had grown between them, a natural and unconstrained friendship. They felt at ease with each other’s company, and Newt would like not to let his royalty interfere with the ways things were. So, the revelation could wait. Newt jumped directly to the main concern.

“Say, what happened?”

_ What happened after you pushed me off the wall? What have they done, that has afterwards left you physically and mentally traumatized? How did you escape? How did you enter the palace? _ There were too many answers that he craved for answers.

“I didn’t recall much,” Thomas admitted, “either what happened that night, nor how I had got myself here.” Newt couldn’t tell how much it disappointed him, but it would be no use to press on further.

“It’s alright. Take your time. Jeff said you’d get back your memory in a day or two. You’re still under temporary shock.”

“I guess so. And…” he spoke hesitantly, “are you like, rich people or noblemen or some sorts like that?”

“Let’s just say I’m not as poor as you thought I were.”

“That’s kinda apparent now.”

Thomas then frowned at his own comment - a sign that Newt had learnt to interpret as his curiosity being triggered. “Why must you disguise? You could’ve just...acted natural. Be yourself.”

_ I wish so too. You think those layers of makeup don’t take efforts?  _ “I wanted to spy on that residence without revealing myself.”

“Why must you  _ spy  _ on that house? You seem...rich and influential. You could’ve just...walked in like a decent visitor.”

_ Thanks for implying that I was an inappropriate guest, I hope you remember that you too were uninvited _ . “Because I am  _ petty _ and wanted to find out how Vizu acquires such wealth. Imagine it like a contest between rich fellows. We want to be wealthier than other wealthy families.” Newt said, grinning widely.

That was a good reason - he felt himself convinced of his own lie.

“You rich people are so weird!”

“Indeed.” He smiled at how earnest Thomas sounded. Now that he knew a portion of Newt’s social status, but yet didn’t change his attitude toward him. Everything was still flowing natural between them, and Newt took it as a good sign. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Why?” Thomas asked confusingly. Newt’s eyes were glinting with amusement.

“‘cause I am ‘rich and influential’.”

Thomas spent a moment to seriously think about it, then he just shrugged. “Then you’re the nicest rich person, to be honest. I’ve never met any who would walk around in disguise and casually make friend with people like me.”

That summed up pretty good what Newt had been doing during his break time out of the palace - to walk around in disguise and to casually make friend with villagers, although he mostly focused to the former part and tended to avoid the latter. Thomas was the first person he could sincerely call ‘friend’ among the strangers he had acquainted with.

Suddenly, his ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps from the outside. Before leaving the side room in a hurry, he signed at Thomas to remain quiet and to stay still. He was back to the library just in time a guard delivered to him a message from the King. “Pharaoh is waiting for you in his quarter, your Highness. He expects you to come right now.”

It took him few seconds to fully process the conveyed message, and, of  course, to shut the internal screaming up. “Alright,” it was a miracle that he could respond with such calmness,  “tell him I’ll be there. Plus, call Jeff the physician here for me. I need to consult him before leaving.”

 

 

_ Sorry to bother you again. But for some reason Alby is calling me to his quarter. I do hope it wouldn’t concern any of what we did. I’ll take full responsibilities if bad things happen. Please look after Thomas while I’m gone. _

That was everything the Prince briefly told him before he hurried out of the Queen’s quarter.

_ Don’t tell him my actual identity. Avoid anything that might imply royalty. _

And that too. The seconds after, he was already out of the quarter. The Prince’s hasty and anxious comportment fretted him. Left alone inside the vast, empty place, already he anticipated the forthcoming end of his medical career. What now? He should be staying here, waiting for news from the Prince - good or bad, or both, and busying himself with anxiety in the meantime. That sounded like a good plan. Actually, he could have his mind totally occupied by taking care of his patient. So be it, he thought and entered the side room.

Thomas was sitting in a corner of the bed. He was nervous, Jeff assumed, because he immediately got agitated and was about to leap to his feet as Jeff stepped in.

“It’s Jeff,” he identified himself, “just stay where you are. The Prin- Newt told me to come here.”

Thomas frowned at the mention of his name, but quickly reminded himself. “You’ve been taking care of me.” He said it in a monotone voice, half question, half confirmation, as if he was stating the fact that, indeed, Jeff had been taking care of him for the last few days, and at the same time asking whether his memory recalled it correctly.

“Yup. That’s me.” Jeff answered as he sat down at the space that several minutes ago was occupied by Newt. He noticed plates on the ground.  _ So they’ve had breakfast together _ , he thought. There were not much left.

“How do you feel about the food?” he asked casually. Clearly, the way he phrased the question was too unclear, because Thomas’ answer “It’s good” was not any less vague than the question itself.

“I mean, did you have the appetite? Did it please you, or you just eat so as not to feel hungry?”

“Oh. Yeah, I really like it. Ate quite a lot”

“Good. You’re stronger than I expected. Should recover fast enough.”

“Oh? Is it that bad? It’s only a wound on the flesh.”

“But still-,” Jeff was about to continue, but something strange about Thomas’ words interrupted him, “how do you know it’s only a wound on the flesh? Did the Pri- Newt tell you so?”

“It’s just...the way it hurts. I feel like my bones aren’t damaged. It does hurt a lot, but the sensation will be...different if the shot pierced through my bones. I can tell, but don’t know how to explain. Just instinct.” Thomas shrugged, eyeing the wounds with an indifferent expression on his face. 

_ Strange _ , Jeff thought. An ordinary person would not be able to discern the severity of wounds, let alone evaluating it instinctively. He had solved medical cases for patients of different background. Noblemen and courtiers, let’s not talk much about them, since these two types always tended to exaggerate everything. Jeff once was summoned in the middle of the night because his patient, who wasn’t able to breathe nor move and was strongly convinced he was going to die, turned out to have fulfilled his stomach to the extreme with inappropriate things. Royal members behaved with much more moderation, like Alby, Newt, or even before the two brothers, their father and mother. They had a little bit of medical knowledge, therefore would have some clues about their health issues, although further problems would require a specialist, like Jeff, to completely fix the troubles.

After all, Jeff had only seen such sharp instinct from soldiers, whose injuries were a daily matter, and getting new ones was on a regular basis. Soldiers were most sensitive to different levels of pain. This realization troubled him.

Thomas was strong, very strong. He was severely beaten, then got shot, then was drugged with a chemical powder that slowed down the veins. In brief, he had been through all sorts of wicked events in the span of three days or less. Normal people would probably  _ die _ , or take about a week to gain back consciousness. Thomas woke up after one night - or, to be more correct, only a few hours. His appetite was not much affected, he could eat that much and feel the real taste of food - not the blandness that sick people often experimented. Despite a hazy mind, he was well aware of his surrounding and able to react fast enough to external disturbances - like when Jeff stepped in the side room. And just now, he had, either accidentally or intentionally, revealed the fact that he could quite tell if the wound was in the flesh or touched the bones.

Altogether, it made Jeff curious, even concerned, about this new friend of the Prince.

“So, just curious,” best to start with a smile, so that was what he did, “Newt hasn’t told me much about you. Where do you come from?”

“Deir-el-Medina, as far as I remember.”

“Sorry? What do you mean, as far as you remember?”

“That’s...basically what I mean. That’s the only thing I remember. I have memory trouble.”

“Ah?”  _ now it was getting more intriguing _ , “And how so?”

Thomas explained in a casual manner, as if he was asked too many times at one point it stopped being a bother. “One morning, I woke up with in Deir-el-Medina. Villagers said they found me floating on the Nile, so they pulled me in. And...that’s it. That’s all I was told. I don’t know how I got there, or even,” there was a short pause before he continued, as if the confession would hurt to be spoken out, “who I am.”

Jeff was bewildered. He’d heard about this kind of memory loss after severe accidents, but to have memory of the past completely erased, theoretically, it was possible, but in practice, not much. He suddenly felt the urge to ask more, to dig for details, to know further about all the symptoms and mental shock afterwards. He deemed Thomas as a case worth studying. A sense of guilt arose, as he felt like he was turning the Prince’s friend into some sort of a rat for experiments, so he just stopped there.

“Must’ve felt very empty. I’m sorry about your loss.”

Thomas gave back a sad smile. Memory loss was a particular kind of loss, the loss of oneself. Perhaps that was the saddest one. He somehow felt sympathized to this boy. Even though Jeff was keen to his doubt, something about Thomas’ sincerity loosened up his guard. It was unclear why Newt chose to trust him, a stranger with no past, but he surely did have a reason for it.

“Actually, Newt hasn’t explained me much about...anything. Like,” Thomas probably was chaining all the recent events mentally, “why did he shoot me, why did he help me, and...what should I do now?”

“First, he shot you, because you intruded the pala- house of his and climbed up an Anubis statue. Do you know what that act means?” Jeff asked sternly.

“Something very...disrespectful?” He smiled awkwardly.

“That disrespectful thing can cost you your head. At least that’s what the Gener- the doorkeeper thought.”  _ Now I am calling the General of Egypt a doorkeeper. Life takes such great turn I might have myself executed. _

“So, Newt had to act. You were surrounded by soldiers. I reckon you at least remember that.” Thomas nodded. Jeff continued, “Newt estimated that an arrow in the leg was better than a spear through the chest, which was a vision that most people would like to admire for someone who has the guts to climb up the status of Anubis.”

“So he shot me down and...brought me here?”

“No. You were first kicked down the jail underground.”

“This is getting too complicated.”

_ I could say the same thing _ . “Then I drugged you so you stopped breathing. Your dead corpse was thrown in the desert. Minho picked you up and delivered you back here.”

“ _ Excuse me _ ?!” Thomas’s eyes widened, surprise and mortification clear on every syllables.

Jeff really looked forward to tell Thomas all the details of the story. The bewildered expressions on his face was priceless, ranged from slightly in awe to utterly disturbed. It temporarily distracted Jeff from imagining about what would shortly happen in the King’s quarter.

 

 

In his office, Alby was working attentively on a paper. The reed stick moved with an unhurried and continual speed. Newt had arrived few minutes ago but he didn’t seem to notice. The Prince stayed by the doorway for a moment to gather his strength. Thud, thud thud - he heard his heart pounding, beads of sweat broke out from his brows, or he was only imagining it, because he felt every vein burning, like a fugitive on the verge of being caught.  _ Does he know? _ Newt repeated the question a million times, feeling an invisible knife hanging above his head, ready to strike down at any moment. The short pathway from the Queen’s quarter to that of the King today became seemingly endless. He had anticipated any scenario that could possibly occur. His mind ran wild in every open direction, desperately seeking for a reason to shield everyone involved in this matter from the Pharaoh’s anger. Alby was his brother, but he was also a King, and King stroke punishment on liars.

Newt was so lost in thought that just as the sense of reasonability returned to him, he had already set foot in the Pharaoh’s quarter without acknowledging when and how.

If he chose to tell the truth, where to begin? _ Alby, remember when I said few days ago I sneaked out the palace? I met a boy, we did stupid things, he saved my life, now I saved his. He was actually the intruder I shot down yesterday. I tricked you into believing that he was dead so I could bring him back to the Palace and hide him in the Queen’s quarter safely. Please don’t be mad _ . Alby would be mad. If he was Alby he would also be very mad. His brother was capricious. Even Newt, frankly said to be the closest person to the King, failed to read his inner thoughts sometimes.

So, truth wasn’t really an option.

To lie was to exhaust oneself, and he was about to enrich his lie with many more. But there was no other choice, for everyone’s sake.

Such ironical situation - he felt somewhat bitter, because he, the Prince, was acting like a wrongdoer sent to death sentence, while the one who  _ did intrude  _ the palace and trigger all kinds of mess yesterday was enjoying a bit of life in the Queen’s quarter. The silence became more frightening the longer it went on, his anxiety accumulated and his feet begged to run away; but an urgent call from Pharaoh didn’t accept excuses when one didn’t feel like obeying. Newt swallowed,  _ let’s see how much luck could I get when situations call for it. _

And so, he stepped in the Pharaoh’s office.

Alby was sitting in his desk, eyes glueing to the paper, hand moving continuously from line to line. Newt approached him from the side, but it seemed his brother’s perception of the world surrounding him had been shut off, leaving his heart and mind solely focused on the matter at hand - the one he was having with that paper he kept writing on. Newt casted a curious glance down to see what was catching that much of Alby’s attention. The King calmly spoke before Newt could guess what was written on the papyrus scroll.

“A letter to Nubia, if that’s what you want to know.”

So Alby had acknowledged his presence for the entire time, without Newt announcing it himself. Perhaps that’s why people said kings went to bed every night with pricked ears and one eye opened.

“Seems important,” he attempted to begin their conversation with a sympathetic smile, but it turned out to be sort of awkward, so he shut himself up until Alby felt the need to converse with him. The room sunk in silence again, hung in the air a monotone rhythm of Alby’s reed sliding on the letter’s rough surface. Placed besides his brother another chair, like it was intentionally put there for the King’s visitor. And so, Newt sat down on the seat that was probably meant for him, waiting for any question Pharaoh might seek answers from.

Finally, the King emerged from his own world as he put down the reed stick, the tip of which soaked with black ink, straightened his back and let out a weary sigh.

“I’m tired of sending warning messages to Nubia.”

“Hm?” he heard himself saying before even having had a chance to give out a wiser reaction. Clearly, he was acting odd, because the next moment Alby raised an eyebrow at him questionably.

“Hasn’t Minho told you about it?”

“About what?”

“About his patrol to the south border.”

_ Buhen Fort _ , a piece of relevant memory emerged. Newt remembered the mission had him so fatigued that last night at one point he couldn’t keep himself awake long enough to fully listen to Newt’s story, despite how intrigued he was to know how Newt and Thomas had met each other, and what had happened between them so that they finally ended up in such twisted situation. Nevertheless, Minho had done everything he could to help Newt get through his plan, even though that shuck face couldn’t stop complaining afterwards.

“He did. As far as I know, things have grown sour there.” He said, having taken note that the intervals between Minho’s patrols had shortened, from usually one per year, to once every five or six months. He wondered if one day Minho would have to permanently stay in the South for the ease of his mission - Newt found the idea unpleasant, since the daily annoyance coming from whom others called Chief of Infantry had long become a part of his day.

“Indeed,” Alby’s voice cut his stream of thoughts. “First, there were people who tried to cross the borders without any paper, permission or even valid reason. Then, reports of robbery started to flow back to the palace, with several  _ months _ of delay. And just now, Minho told me inhabitants who used to live peacefully in villages nearby Buhen Fort had to abandon their home behind, because they could no longer stand the increasing rate of crime there. Robbery and violence have now become a daily entertainment of Nubian nomads and troops of bandits.”

“If the Nubian government fails to control people of their own land, I wonder how are they supposed to hold their entire territory back together. Much to my dismay, their failure affects the sake of  _ our  _ people.” The King declared, his slightly clenched fist betrayed the calm as ever tone of his voice. Newt gulped.

“What do you plan to do with them? The Nubians who cross our border.”

“Clearly, I will chase them back to where they come from.” Alby said resolutely. It made sense. That was one of the most reasonable solution, but not as much sympathetic.

“Perhaps they are looking for a better life, Alby.”

“That doesn’t tolerate the mayhem they bring along.”

“Mayhem? Maybe it isn’t that bad. You said there were few robberies, and occasional violence.”

“Because we’re still able to holding them in the south. What would happen if one day it spreaded out to Thebes, and Luxor, and the entire Egypt? The consequences might not be visible now, but I don’t want my successors to carry the burdens I have been negligent of.”

“Don’t you think the Nubian government is in need of some aid? People don’t flee their birthplace for no reason.”  _ Unless they have no other choice, when life has become unbearable _ .

“The wellness of Egyptians is my utmost concern. And that of Nubians is under the charge of their own government.”

Newt didn’t protest. It didn’t necessarily mean agreement, but at the end, it was his brother who made decisions, and most of them aimed to preserve the prosperity of this land and the peace of its inhabitants. It was the sole duty of those who wore the crown of The United Egypt.

“Here,” Alby handed Newt the scroll, much to the Prince’s surprise. Confusingly, Newt took it, not knowing what to do next.

“Read it, and tell me what you think.”

Startled, Newt was about to give back the scroll, but a stern look on Alby’s face stopped him.

“It’s an important matter, Alby, someone else should do it in my place. You have hundreds of advisers waiting for your order.”

“That’s the problem. I have way too  _ many _ advisers, each of them has their ideas of  _ this _ and of  _ that  _ then energetically defend their arguments against others’. It’s good to have diverse points of view, but in most cases, it’s exhausting to be the arbitrator. Sometimes, one humble opinion coming from a reliable person worths more than a dozen of lengthy arguments. I don’t wish to disturb you, little brother. I know your ankle still hurts, but this letter can’t wait. Of course, I could come to the Queen’s quarter so you don’t have to move much,”  _ oh no please don’t, not this time _ , Newt heard himself mutter, “but it’d be better if politic matters stay out of your serene space”.

The simple act of caring, no matter how small it was, lit a warmness in his chest. He glanced at his brother one last time, waiting to see if Alby ever wanted to change his mind, only to catch a nod from him. Alby’s hands were crossed on his chest. He broke eye contact from Newt, leaned on the chair, and closed his eyes. However, he was not relaxing, but waiting for advice from the particular person he’d chosen. And so, Newt read the letter.

It started formally, but the words were subtly chosen so that readers would feel as if judged and criticized by a someone from higher order. Complaints were expressed in different tones, from slight remarks down to scornful reprimands.

“ _ This is the fifth time within two years I have sent army to the south border” _ , he read mentally, “ _ despite your promises of security reinforcement, which I now deem futile” _ . Fifth time already? Newt made a quick calculation. Minho left to exercise the patrolling duty more often than before. As far as he remembered, his friend wasn’t even supposed to march back and forth between the palace and Buhen Fort, since person of his rank shouldn’t be carrying a trivial patrol task, until recently. The situations were worse than it seemed, to have the Chief of Infantry himself dispatched away to take back control in the southern Egypt.

_ “The disorder that is dominating your land starts to affect my people. It is not a pleasant news. Pray tell, is there any particular reason I need to be acknowledged of, in order to fully understand why robbers, bandits, and criminals run free from your land and enter Egypt? Hopefully, it does not result from any intentional act of vandalism.” _

_ “Bear in mind the responsibility of a loyal colony” _ , the King’s dismay was easily sensed from every word, he could imagine a growl when reading it,  _ “or I myself shall remind you of lessons from the past, in action” _ .

The next part was several reminders of Egypt’s vigorous conquerors, from Ramesses II, to his successor, then his successor’s successors, going all the way down to the former Pharaoh - their father. It was long ago, Alby was too little to remember, and Newt wasn’t even born. The battle didn’t go on long, since the King of Nubia, also the spirit of this southern land, was already weakened by sickness. It was a fast, easy battle of the Egyptian King against the rebellious Nubian ruler, who provoked war to claim independence from Egypt’s colonization. He had miscalculated the situations, and the land he held dear was once more conquered by the people of the Nile. The Nubia’s King was spared a life. In the one hand, Pharaoh wanted to show mercy, to Nubia and as well to other countries that looked up at Egypt as their supreme ruler. In the other hand, with Pharaoh’s beloved concubine Laelia close to her labor day, generosity to the enemy would be a heavenly blessing to his newborn child. However, the Nubia’s former king didn’t last long. His already declined health, then aggravated by despair resulting from the defeated battle, took him to the other world shortly afterwards. That was when his Queen took regency, for the next heir of Nubia was too young to bear kingship.

Since then, Nubia annually sent Egypt their offerings, rather obligatorily than voluntarily, to redeem mistakes that their King had left behind.

_ “There will not be a sixth time, otherwise, optimistic reaction is not guaranteed from my part.”  _ The letter ended there, not yet signed, so it was only a draft. The letter was rather short, much shorter than he’d expected, since he’d seen Alby put lots of effort on it. It seemed compactness took harder work than dozen pages of arguments. The entire message was accentuated by a churlish tone, but it was, after all, a complaint, so the employed writing style fitted its author’s purpose.

“The letter is succinct enough,” Newt said to a patient Alby, “one little thing is that I don’t think mentioning our conquers over Nubia in this letter is a good idea.”

“How so?”

“Alby, they must’ve already been very pissed off. The overall instability, the ravaging epidemic, basically...everything is not going well in Nubia. It’d be no use to piss them off even more.” 

However, “I only state the truth,” his opinion was face by Alby’s cold, stiff reply. Newt continued to soothe the King’s irritation.

“The regent Queen doesn’t get much success with whatever she’s doing, obviously. But she still sends envoys to Egypt along their offerings annually. That’s already too much of loyalty.” Newt broke off a bit to wait for any opposite view from his brother, instead Alby was silent, giving him signs to continue. “Their people are suffering. As we know, the next heir is quite a disappointment to most of them. I understand you’re not pleased with the reality down the southern region, but the regent Queen isn’t pleased with her reality either. And hers is, I think, even more pessimistic than ours. Just...don’t put too much pressure on them, Alby.”

His brother, after listening attentively to him, looked away from his brother, eyebrows knitting as if deep in thought. After a while, he let out a sigh then admitted Newt might be right. He was convinced that glory of the past should do no good to be recalled in the present. He next took back the draft from Newt, did some corrections by using red ink to erase unnecessary things, refined other sentences, occasionally consulted Newt’s opinion for such and such parts. When all was well, he rewrote the final version on a new papyrus scroll, stamp on it his signature with the divine name of Pharaoh before calling in a messenger and ordering him to deliver it to Nubia immediately.

Once the letter was safely kept inside the bag of his trustworthy messenger, Alby’s posture was loosened up to become more relaxing.

“You’re always so soft, little brother.”

Was he? Perhaps. “I tend to avoid violence as much as possible”, it sounded like the typical arguments the weaks employed to fight against the rudeness of others. He had never liked wars. He spent endless hours reading about glorious victories of Egypt’s former Pharaohs. It was true that the kings of this land were born to conquer. Wars after wars, battles followed by battles, Egypt’s history again thickened with triumph, and temples proudly stood up with new victories carved onto its walls. After all, blood shed on battlefields didn’t go to waste, as Egypt’s territory was spreaded out as far as one could imagine, and prosperity enjoyed its long stay.

It was an honour to be a child of the Nile River, but beyond wealth and victors, Newt saw deaths scattered along its history. Thousands of it. Millions of it. He always wondered how one would feel like, knowing that he was once alive and the next moment he wasn’t. How does it feel like, to have your flesh pierced through, to have your throat cut deep, to have your head bashed open, to have your lungs emptied of breaths? He didn’t know, didn’t want to know nor to experiment it, but those nameless soldiers whose body lied back in battlefields did.

Lady Laelie, his mother, died in childbirth. They said the massacre his father had caused to Nubian soldiers put a curse on her. Another mystery he could never solve. How does one’s crime bend the fate of other? Nobody spoke about Lady Laelie after her death, as it caused sorrow and aroused anger from the Pharaoh. His father loved him, that was certain, but he barely talked about Newt’s mother, despite the fact that she once was the fragile flower he held dear. Maybe his father was torn by remorse, maybe he too believed it was him who pushed her to such painful end. Jeff was the only one who dared to mention her when Newt occasionally asked.  _ She was a lovely lady, your Highness _ , he told him wistfully.  _ A kindness rarely seen these days _ .

Newt loathed war and everything about it.

“Wars only lead to peril and misery”, he said, unexpected grief weighing down in his voice. Alby showed him a sympathetic look. He lightly patted Newt’s shoulder, and laid his hand there, as if hoping its warmth would somehow light up Newt’s heavy heart.

“Little brother, at one point, you will see, we have to fight for what is dear to us. Violence is unavoidable when your family’s safety is at risk. Egypt is my family. I will kill if needed to ensure the survival of my loved ones.”

_ So did our father, but at the end, his loved one didn’t survive _ , Newt thought bitterly, but finally he chased the gloomy ideas away. What happened happened. What he had to do now was to live the rest of his days to the fullest, and to be with his only family, through easy and wicked time.

“I know, Alby.” Newt smiled fondly at his brother. “No matter what you choose, I’m with you.”

They spent the next hours talking about other important matters of the state besides that disagreement with Nubia. The vacancy Master Stephen, the last vizier, left behind hadn’t yet been resolved. That was another headache, since such power should not be placed in anyone’s hand without serious consideration. At the time, Alby hadn’t yet found any potential candidate suitable of vizierate. Newt mentioned Gally, but his brother seemed hesitant.  _ I’m looking for a vizier who has more patience and less desire to sacrifice criminals to deities,  _ he sighed. But kingship was an overwhelming duty, that’s why viziers were chosen to lessen the burden, acting as a secretary and mouthpiece of the King. Alby agreed that if ever he couldn’t find anyone else, Gally would evidently assume the vizierate.

Eventually, the two brothers went astray from the governmental topics to laugh together about nonsense jokes, like when Newt suggested political marriage should mend the bond between two countries very well and he was more than ever ready to be shipped off to wed the Nubia’s heir and save the date, to which Alby rolled his eyes and stated the fact that, not yet considering the issue of gender incompatibility between Newt and the Nubia’s heir, if Newt didn’t get rid of his hobby to eventually sneak out of the palace, from Nubia he might wander back to Egypt without acknowledgement.

Newt started to believe the urgent call from Alby was only about the letter that needed proofreading. A wave of reassurance washed over him, if not all of a sudden Ably interrupted their talk by a question.

“And now, shall we discuss about the most urgent matter of the day?”

His heart skipped a beat. Wasn’t this letter the only urgent problem they needed to deal with? Just as a crippling anxiety had the chance to arise and occupy his head, already overdosed with worst anticipations, Alby clapped his hands and servants came in the quarter with plates of appetizing dishes.

“I’d really love to have a company I enjoy for lunch. This time, hopefully, nothing unexpected shall disturb us again.”

_ I hope so too _ . Thomas would better be asleep in the Queen’s quarter until Newt came back. One caused less trouble when they were deep into their dreamy realm.

 

 

At the hour where the sun stood idly on the cloudless, azure sky, nobody passed by the west gate. Everything was quiet and unhurried, the way it always was, as if time slowed down on this side of the palace, and every minute lasted for centuries. At least, it was Ben’s feelings right now. He was fretting. Sweats didn’t stop breaking down from his forehead, streaming down his face, blurred the eyes and fatigued him even more the longer time went on. The waiting was a laconic killer, pressure of which made Ben feel like being forced to drink a lethal poison, drop by drop, until his nerves found it too much to bear.  _ Still enough time to run away _ , he heard an inward call, rushing him to run away. In spite of his inner lucidity, an invisible force pinned him down, kept him anchored at a place he should never be. Ideas and thoughts hustled and rattled on, bumping one to another, leaving not a moment of temporary silence to a distraught mind.

_ Come see me at the west gate. Noon. Alone. Or your secret will not longer remain hidden. _

What was he thinking when sliding that foolish letter in the Queen’s quarter doorway? Was he possessed by some sort of evilness? It only happened last night, though the memory of that act was so strange, so unfamiliar, as if manipulated by someone else but his own sense of reason. He tried to put himself together, to glue up chains of events, piece by piece. There he was, following Minho and two other soldiers all the way up through hallways and quarters, until they all arrived at that of the Queen. Something about that chest of dried flowers stirred up his curiosity, what a peculiar gift for one woman, especially its heavy weight even when there were only flowers, and possibly a small statue hidden within, but still, he was impelled to discover that was truly hidden inside the chest that Egypt’s Chief of Infantry himself had to supervise its delivery.

He was not disappointed, even bewildered, when seeing a man lifted from inside that chest. A wounded, bleeding man. He didn’t know what happened next, for it was difficult to have clear observation from the doorway of the Queen’s quarter. As Minho and the two soldiers re-appeared at the doorway, he had quickly slipped away. Awaiting. It was a long while since Minho came back in the quarter for the last time. No use to stay for any longer, he thought, then he was about to leave, a thunderstruck idea arose. Moments later, Ben found himself furtively returning to the Queen’s quarter, sliding a letter scroll inside then quickly left.

And now he was here, awaiting.

How many hours had passed? The sun was still fixed in that exact position where it had been since he started his usual guard at the west gate. He’d like not to think further about it, he’d love to distract himself from this relentless flow of disconcerting visions. What a vain effort, for after one brief blink of eyes, the Chief of Infantry was standing in front of him, the way a ghost would appear when one was deep in a shrouded mist of his own troubled  mind.

The Chief was smiling at him. “You must be the author of this little, pretty letter.” Such a frank manner to start their conversation. He saw said letter held between Minho’s index and middle fingers. Ben struggled to find the missed beats of his heart.

_ I don’t know what you’re talking about _ , he should say so.

“Yes, I am.” Ben heard himself replying.

“I am here now, so,” another heartwarming smile as the Chief leaned on the wall behind him, two arms crossed on his chest, making himself at ease, “speak what you have in mind.”

_ Nothing, it was all a stupid joke of mine _ , he should say so.

“I want to trade off that secret to a place in your infantry army.”

If Ben ever had the chance to change the course of time, he would go back to this exact moment, to laugh heartily on how brave yet foolish he was. Foolish to the extreme. Out of all the ways Ben could choose to live his life, he had picked the hardest one, which later on showed him that a man’s true self was something even gods could not measure.

 


End file.
